


Blue-Eyed Monster

by Only_1_Truth



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: A certain unavoidable amount of Q whumping, Ableist Language, Also Smart Q, Attempted Kidnapping, Author should not be allowed to use tags, Chess, Did I say slow burn?, Explicit sexual content by the end, Kidnapping, M sometimes wonders if she should just shoot Bond, M/M, Shameless 007 is shameless, Slow Burn, Smart Bond, Violence, Violence against office supplies, Whump, atypical Vesper backstory, he wouldn't be Bond if he weren't like a walking heat-lamp for Quartermasters, use of sex and cameras to embarrass Quartermasters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-09 12:04:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 118,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1982313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_1_Truth/pseuds/Only_1_Truth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yes, this version of 007 was a terrifyingly smart agent, and M wondered long and often whether it had been a good idea to promote him to the position.  Usually, the title was the dangerous part - being 007 meant deadliness - but this time, M feared that a certain man with ice-blue eyes and scruffy blonde hair had dragged in more danger to the title than it had previously possessed</p>
<p>Enter MI6's new Quartermaster: an unassuming, bespectacled genius with no mind for subterfuge but plenty of genius behind a dry smile.  Curious 00-agents and young boffins don't always mix in predictable ways...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Quite Unapologetically

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Niebieskooki potwór](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5157056) by [WildChaser](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildChaser/pseuds/WildChaser)



> If anyone read my kidfic, "Attack-Dogs Make Great Babysitters", you might recall the moment when Q's rather lamentable parents called Bond a 'blue-eyed monster' - this fic was born form this phrase alone. Enjoy (~.^)

 

“I knew I promoted you to 00-status too soon,” M said tightly as she saw Bond, sitting at her table with his keen eyes, playing cards.  His fingers were quick as they shuffled them, making it no wonder that he was the best card-player in MI6.  If only his other skills weren’t so unsettling, even among 00-agents. M chose to chastise him instead of giving in and showing how much she was unsettled by that ice-sharp blue gaze inside of her supposedly-locked home.  “You’re much more irritating than your predecessors, you know that? No other 007 has had the cheek to break into my apartment,” she informed him in a tone that made it clear how little she thought of that stunt, when really she was disconcerted by how easily he’d done it.  This latest 007 was not only a lot more troublesome than those before him, but he was also disturbingly smarter. Not a lot of 00-agents had the brain capacity to calculate the odds at cards games and just guess passwords in under five minutes.  His skill at getting into places that were supposed to be beyond him bordered on creepy, and his ability to read people was downright eerie. 

Yes, this version of 007 was a terrifyingly smart agent, and M wondered long and often whether it had been a good idea to promote him to the position. Usually, the title was the dangerous part - being 007 meant deadliness - but this time, M feared that a certain man with ice-blue eyes and scruffy blond hair had dragged in more danger to the title than it had previously possessed. 

“Sorry. I’d have knocked, but no one was home,” he replied shortly, reshuffling the cards absentmindedly while his senses obviously remained locked on his boss. 

M scoffed loudly at him.  “If you were a regular person, you’d know that that means to sod off or wait at the door.”

“Like a good dog?” Bond joked, but as always, he had too many edges for humor to make it through completely unscathed.  Some women lived for that thrilling sense of danger, and even M was not inured to the way Bond’s playful little smiles sent shivers up a woman’s spine. Only, M was perfectly aware of what an imperfect lure that charisma was, and that the dangerousness in this man far outweighed whatever thrill one could get from playing around with him. James was a fire that always burned.

And quite unapologetically. 

M noticed her half-open laptop, and her eyes suddenly went wide as she immediately hurried across the room, for a moment forgetting whom she was sharing a room with - namely, that she had promised herself never to turn her back on him, after she’d seen how easily he killed people.  ‘Killing the first person is hard,’ went the saying, ‘but the second one significantly easier.’  For this reincarnation of James Bond, every one after that had only increased that lethal ease, to the level where M wondered if he felt anything at all now when he pulled the trigger or twisted the knife. 

Right now, M was so focused on the fact that her laptop was obviously open - and that all of its defenses were completely down - that she forgot, although Bond just lounged where he was, a sated lion in the shadows of M’s flat. “Did you break into my laptop?!” she actually shrieked.  She could follow the browser history to see where he’d been, and most of the windows were still open - but all she really could tell was that Bond had been all over the place on her computer.  Like his mind, she couldn’t follow it. 

He didn’t say anything, the only sign of something remotely like guilt showing in the muscle that flicked in his cheek as he briefly clenched his teeth. More likely, it was just preemptive annoyance as he braced himself for the scolding ahead.  So far as M could tell, Bond’s morality was buried too deeply to actually be reached by anything.  It made him an agent without peer, but a decidedly worrisome human being.

“Well, obviously I can answer that question myself,” M grumbled.  As much as she wanted - needed - to go through her laptop and figure out what her sociopathic agent had done, she knew that she probably wouldn’t understand half of it.  Beyond that, Bond was more than smart enough to selectively hide the more incriminating things he’d been nosing into.  So she closed it, in a fashion that denoted denial.  M whirled around, secretly relieved to see that Bond hadn’t moved, although he’d stopped shuffling those cards he’d found in her desk-drawer. “Anything to say for yourself?”

For a moment, he looked like she might have pricked his temper a bit, but then the annoyed look on his face shifted into a little sliver of a smile, sharp and a little bit amused.  “Do you want me to get the job done or not?”

 

~^~

 

M sighed as she walked alongside her new Quartermaster, his gate smooth and his face young, hiding a level of intellect that had come highly recommended - that had, in fact, beaten out practically all rivals.  His youth still made her frown, and M would be watching to see if he could handle the tech-analysts under his command as well as he could handle firewalls and coding.  So far, he looked promising: as she walked him into Q-branch, his expression remained aloof and unruffled, the only obvious emotion being polite interest bordering on curiosity. His hazel eyes flashed with interest behind his glasses, but he held it in check better than most young men his age when presented with a dream-job like this. 

“This is where you will be working,” M introduced, secretly pleased that the Q-branchers ducked their heads to their computers as she walked by. It was good to know that she’d lost none of her powers of intimidation since she’d last been down here. “Feel free to reorganize and change things as you wish.”

The new Quartermaster’s head turned at this, his eyes unable to hide surprise as he blinked. “How far…” he was clearly picking his words carefully, which M approved of, so long as he got to the point, “...Would you allow these changes to go?  Within reason, of course.”

She stopped and looked him dead in the eye, and for all of her shorter height, was capable of looming.  “All I care about are results, Q,” she informed him bluntly, “If you have changes in mind that can get me the results I want, I don’t care if you bloody turn Q-branch on its ear. Just don’t disappoint me.”

“No, M, of course not,” he blinked rapidly again in something like flustered embarrassment, pushing his glasses up his nose in an obvious nervous tic to hide it. He quickly got himself under control again, though, which boded well for his time in MI6. 

Pleased that this Q could at least act older than his age, M began to talk about those who generally acted younger than their age.  “Your primary concern will be to oversee missions for our 00-division - especially in regards to their equipment.  I have heard good things about your ability to design as well as to code, so I expect to see interesting things from you.” Q nodded slowly, seeming unsure whether he was being warned or complimented, although he was optimistic enough to choose the latter, if the smoothing of his expression was any indication. M decided to quash a bit of that good mood before it got out of hand, and noted wryly, “Not that most of the 00-agents will bring back half of what you equip them with, but one can always hope.”

They walked for a while in silence after that, giving Q a taste of the width and breadth of his department.  He looked over all of it with a critical, knowledgeable eye, managing not to look overwhelmed in the least. Eventually, he gave his throat a polite clearing and asked, “So, I will be working directly with 00-agents? I was under the impression that I would be overseeing their weapons and...gadgetry...but only handling them remotely.”

“In a perfect world, that would be your job description,” M admitted, scowling a bit as she thought of her top agents.  The scowl actually hid fondness and pride, but no one had to know that. “However, if need arises, I’ll want you to interact with them personally, if only to ensure that they know which end of the guns you give them are the dangerous ends.”

That startled a little breath that might have been a laugh out of the young man, but he hid it quickly, coughing into his fist.  “A pity they can’t figure that out themselves.  I’ll be sure not to design anything too complicated for them,” he carefully dared to joke, keeping it dry. 

M might have been amused by the courageous little spark of humor - most people didn’t warm up to her fast enough to make light of anything for at least a few months - but she still had more to tell her Quartermaster about.  Warn him, actually.  So far, she’d been working her way up slowly to what would probably be the biggest challenge for any new person in MI6.  “There might also be...unauthorized visits,” she said slowly, trying not to let her resigned annoyance show, “by 00-agents.  They like to keep people on their toes, and as you are new, they’ll see you as a prime target.”

“I’ll keep a weather eye out,” the young man promised, taking the warning seriously while also hiding any sign that he was frightened by the prospect. Good.  Maybe he’d live through the first week. 

“And Q?” M stopped and turned to him; the tour was almost over, and the door back to the main halls of MI6 stood at her back. The young man straightened before her, lifting an attentive eyebrow above large, young eyes. He looked so gangly and immature that it was nearly ridiculous, and his dress barely saved him from looking like a boy they’d pulled out of school for the day.  M would have to discreetly have a talk with R, to make sure that Q-branch looked out for its Quartermaster until it was clear that he could hold his own against the headstrong, dangerously curious agents that would soon begin sniffing around.  Speaking of agents…  “Watch out for 007.”

“I beg your pardon?” Q asked, clearly bewildered by the specificity of the command. His lips pursed and his brows lowered suddenly behind his glasses. 

“All 00-agents have a habit of making nuisances of themselves in some way or another,” M regretfully admitted, “but our current 007 agent is the top of his class in that category.  He’s manipulative, brash, good at what he does, and has no trouble using his espionage training while off-duty. When bored, he’s worse.”

“So are you saying he’ll...threaten me?” Q tried to figure out where this was going, still looking rather bemused for someone with such a high I.Q. “Or cause a ruckus in Q-branch?”

“Probably a little bit of both.  If he ever gets out of hand, know that you have my express permission to shoot him,” M said without compunction, and maybe even a bit of optimism, like part of her was hoping this reincarnation of James Bond would be put out of commission for the sake of her peace of mind,  “With the other 00-agents, call security or Tanner, but don’t bother with 007.”

Q blinked at that, one eyebrow lifting as if he wasn’t entirely sure whether to believe all of this or not.  Ultimately, his only comment was, “He sounds like quite a handful.”

“He’s been declared dead twice in the last month alone and I’ve threatened to kill him myself more than a dozen times,” snapped M, getting annoyed just thinking about Bond. Q still looked skeptical, but hopefully M’s warnings at least had made him wary, so he wouldn’t be picked apart by 007 when the agent inevitably caught wind of new blood in the system.

It was true that Bond was a monster when he was bored... the real problem was, he could be bored in the middle of a full-scale mission, so keeping the man occupied was a full-time job.  The bluntest way to put it would be to warn Q about the fact that 007 was a ton more dangerous than any of the other agents because he honestly had no morals, tended to kill people both on and off the job, and didn’t have any connection to anyone that was deep enough to cause him to regret their death.  That, combined with his constant need for stimulation via mayhem, and MI6 had a veritable weapon of war that they mostly tried to unleash on other countries.  Even the other 00-agents were wary of tangling with 007.

“I’ll do my best to out-think him,” Q said with a faint, dry smile that warmed his eyes just slightly with an amused light. 

Normally, that would have been a sensible response, but M still snorted even as she turned to leave.  From here on out, Q was on his own.  As luck would have it, Bond was in Japan for at least a week yet, so the new Quartermaster would have seven days of peace before MI6’s most dangerous agent came back to base and M found out whether her new Quartermaster was really tough enough to man his post. “We’re fairly certain that he botches his I.Q. test on purpose every time we test him,” M warned in favor of full- disclosure, and then left. 

 

~^~

 

It was actually two weeks before Q met the notorious 007, but only because the man went off the grid after blowing up a building and then popped up in another country three days later.  Everyone was still trying to puzzle out how he’d completed his mission, but the files were there, and 007 was returning home.  Q hadn’t officially had a hand in the mission except for booking the flights for the ride back to London. 

Q was settling in well - better than well.  In under six days he’d turned Q-branch on its ear, reassigning personnel, rewriting protocols, overhauling projects, even firing a few people when it became clear they couldn’t or wouldn’t get with the program.  MI6 didn’t know what a well-oiled machine was until Q got his Branch up and running again - his way.  It turned out that the bespectacled scarecrow of a man had more spine than everyone had expected, because he had the respect of his underlings within that timeframe as well. 

It had been predicted that the 00-agents would give Q problems.  They were world-class killers and spies, after all, and it was easy for their curiosity to get out of hand when new people were concerned - especially if they sensed weakness.  In this way, they were like oversized puppies with very sharp teeth and access to handguns. Fortunately, Q had gained the loyalty of his tech-analysts (soon called his ‘minions’ by nearly everyone) very quickly, and with their help, Q became a bit of a ghost.  Q very rarely left Q-branch anyway, and new protocols kept the 00-agents from coming very far in.  In other words, Q was a force of nature within Q-branch, but for anyone outside of Q-branch, he barely even existed.  In this fashion, Q deftly removed himself from bothersome situations before they even happened, and M didn’t know whether to react with derision or pride. Her agents obviously weren’t nosy enough if they hadn’t realized they had a new Quartermaster who looked too young to shave.  It was rather nice to have an employee who could subdue his ego long enough to think about his safety instead - Q’s renovations of Q-branch and its tech could have made him famous if he’d just stepped out of his inner sanctum for an hour. If he’d done that, he also would have garnered the attention of MI6’s best and most dangerous men, so Q had chosen the wise road and avoided attention. M approved (or, rather, made no comment whatsoever, which translated to approval). 

And, of course, it had to be Bond who threw a wrench into that system. 

“Quartermaster,” squeaked a female voice.  The analyst who popped her head into Q’s office looked positively frazzled - so unsettled, in fact, that Q briefly listened to see if he could hear the ceiling collapsing or something.  He couldn't imagine what else would so unravel a person. 

“What is it?” he demanded, brows low in confusion when he could detect no signs of trauma or impending disaster. 

“Quartermaster, it’s 007.  We thought he was only here to check in his kit, but then he started talking to Wilkisson…” The poor woman trailed off, looking apologetic. 

At the mention of the agent’s designation, Q recalled his first conversation with M. He grew a bit more alert, but also had to admit that he was curious - rumors followed that man like a black cloud, and one had to wonder how he had garnered so many.  Plus, what kind of man cheated on his I.Q. test? “Go on.  Did Wilkisson upset his delicate 00-feelings or something?” Q dryly goaded, not seeing the problem yet.

The analyst made a face.  “007 does this... thing... when he talks.  He starts off with these benign questions, but before you know it, he starts focusing in like a dog on a throat, and you don’t even know that you’ve said anything incriminating,” she explained, “and Wilkisson isn’t exactly much of a liar anyway-”

“Miss Roberts,” Q recalled her name, growing exasperated with the roundabout talk that obviously sounded more like exaggeration and hearsay than anything factually useful, “What exactly happened?”

“Wilkisson ended up saying ‘the new Quartermaster’ once, and now 007 is looking for you. Here.  In Q-branch,” the woman admitted in a rush. She sounded about as apologetic as one could get, but was also holding onto the doorframe as if she’d just survived a hurricane.  Or as if said hurricane were still around - perhaps under the name of ‘James Bond’ - and she was worried about being ripped away by it.  “I’m sorry, we tried to stop him, but-”

“That’s all right, Miss Roberts,” Q lifted a hand and stood up from his desk, a few typed commands halting his work where it was.  He was caught between intrigue and unease, but hid both. “Has he done anything?”

“No, not really,” she admitted, “It’s just that he’s... there.  He makes people nervous.”

“I’m sure it can’t be that bad,” Q tried to reassure as he walked past her out the door, unable to understand how Bond could be behaving and yet somehow _not_ behaving.  Miss Roberts’s explanation of ‘he makes people nervous’ was frustratingly vague, and Q couldn’t see how that alone had her in such a tizzy. As he exited his office, Q-branch didn’t appear to be going up in flames, and Q thought he spotted an unfamiliar face across the room, leaning quite benignly against a desk with a charming half-smile directed at the minion working there.  Even if Q hadn’t seen enough security footage and pictures in reports about the man, it would have been impossible to mistake one of Q’s minions for 007 standing there.  All of the other Q-branchers in the area were blatantly staring at the first 00-agent to enter the heart of Q-branch since the arrival of their new Quartermaster.

“Shall I call security?” Miss Roberts asked timidly from behind him.

Watching the agent - moderately tall, blond, handsome, and carrying himself with a natural grace and charm that made him even more so - Q hummed to himself in thought, and then decided unexpectedly, “No.  I’ll handle this.

“But, Q, you said-”

“I know what I said,” Q tried to hold in his mounting impatience with the conversation while also keeping an eye on 007 - the files really didn’t do him justice. The man hadn’t looked up to see him yet, which was odd, considering how alert most agents were, but he radiated lazy power like some sort of predatory cat.  Bond seemed totally engrossed in his conversation with the techie, as if he were chatting up an old friend.  Q was willing to bet money that the two actually had nothing in common, so it was eerie to watch.  “I know that I said discretion is the better part of valor, but that only comes into play if I’m expecting an altercation.  However, you said that 007 is behaving himself?”

“Mostly. He refused all attempts to keep him out.”

“Violently?” Q’s spine stiffened at the thought of his underlings being injured.  Q may not have been dangerous enough to poke a double-o’s nose, but that didn’t mean he had no instincts to protect those who worked under him. He simply had to be more creative and subtle in how he addressed threats. 

Roberts shook her head.  “I think the worst he did was pin Simmons to the wall and threaten to chop his fingers off. While smiling.” The woman gave a visible shiver as if the smile had actually been the most frightening part of the whole altercation.  “I’m not sure if he meant that he’d be smiling while he did it, or if he’d force Simmons to smile through the process.  No one was going to ask.”

Q briefly decided to call security after all, but then realized that any man who could make threats like that likely wouldn’t be fazed by security guards either. “Oh, good then,” Q said with heavy sarcasm, sighing dramatically, and _then_ Bond’s head lifted.  The smile he’d directed at the minion was still in place, and it landed on Q without changing in the slightest.  Judging by the lack of surprise or chagrin, Q was willing to wager that the agent had known he was there all the time after all.  Q forced himself to finish calmingly to Roberts, “If that’s all he’s been doing, I’m sure I can handle this diplomatically.  Please, go back to your work, Miss Roberts.”

Honestly, the woman looked like she wanted to grab her Quartermaster and make a run for it with him, but since Q was already striding away with a calm face and an upright posture, she had no choice but to acquiesce.

A graveyard-deep silence fell on the room as Q approached the invader, who was clearly twice his size - a fact that grew more obvious the closer he got. Bond seemed made to take up space and just own it.  The Quartermaster nonetheless wore an expression of perfect nonchalance, looking barely even interested in the situation.  The 00-agent, on the other hand, looked _very_ interested, the smile having frozen on his face like a mask while his blue eyes followed Q in like laser sights.  As Q got nearer, he shivered to realize that the charm he’d been seeing from a distance was actually just a paper-thin veneer over a calculating coldness like a mountain lake.  The agent didn’t twitch a muscle as Q approached, either to back down or move forward threateningly, but there was no way to look at him and not know that he was dangerous.

“Is there something in particular you need, 007?” Q got his voice together to ask, voice carefully non-combative, because the only way he could see this going worse was to add violence to it, “Something so urgent that you felt the need to barge into Q-branch despite direct instructions not to?”

Bond was unabashedly scanning him now, eyes going from his tousled crown of hair to his neat but sensible shoes.  He seemed to look amused in a jaded sort of way, before that emotion was tucked away as well, and he went back to meeting Q’s eyes again with uncanny chips of blue. “I’m sorry.  I must have missed the sign,” the larger man apologized transparently.

Q was glowering and accusing dryly before he had time to think better on it: “You didn’t even try at that apology.”

The disarming grin on 007’s face flickered, and for a second Q thought he was about to have a fight on his hands - one that, if 007’s track-record and general physique were any indications, would quickly mean the end of the latest Q. Somehow, within two minutes of meeting him, Q had managed to unsettle 007.  The faint twitch around Bond’s eyes was brief and fleeting, and the muscles in his folded arms and broad shoulders flexed, but 007 aborted any further movement before it came to life.  The man had stopped talking, though, instead just standing with one hip leaned against the desk and his arms crossed, as if waiting to see what trick Q would do next.

Deciding that returning the silence would just be childish, Q obliged and leaned forward a fraction, looking up over the rims of his glasses to say patronizingly, “Let’s not insult either of our intelligences, 007.  You know perfectly well that you were not supposed to come here - unless, of course, your ears are failing, in which case I suggest you take that up with Medical.”  Q leaned back again. 

Bond watched him, and damn if that man’s attention wasn’t the eeriest thing. It was like being skinned alive, slowly, and knowing it should hurt but somehow feeling nothing under that laceratingly sharp gaze.  Q felt his heart give a little stutter, and realized fully, for the first time, that M hadn’t been bluffing when she’d warned him to be wary of this agent in particular.

The stillness was actually the most disconcerting thing, because files Q had seen on the agent had indicated that he hated sitting still and also preferred doing the talking. Now, while Q began to fidget slightly, 007 stood with perfect stillness and simply raked his eyes over him quietly one more time, as if trying to brush some secret loose.  Or maybe peel Q open like a fortune cookie, whose secrets could only be found out by destroying it a little. 

Finally, just as Q clenched his jaw in frustration and then made to open his mouth to say something he’d probably regret, 007’s whole face relaxed into a smile. It was charming and gorgeous and friendly, and just what a predator needed to lure in prey. “My apologies, Q.” This time, the apology all but flowed off 007’s tongue, and it had so much sincerity to it that Q found himself on the back foot, blinking in confusion.  Where was this coming from?  It was as if the annoying, troublemaking James Bond had turned to smoke and a whole new one had taken his place, one with manners and aplomb and a smile like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.  Bond’s eyes even seemed to warm, when Q looked up to them in search of some last evidence of a lie. 

But while Q was entirely sure that 007 was just playing him, he couldn’t see a trace of it anywhere. 

Q was still staring and trying to figure this all out when 007 shoved smoothly off the desk and turned on one heel, leaving far more quietly than he had come. “Good to meet you, Quartermaster,” he called over his shoulder in a tone that was too benign to trust. It wasn’t until later that Q realized that he’d never been introduced as the Quartermaster, but that Bond had simply - and correctly - come to that conclusion. 

The very next day, Bond began making Q’s life a living hell. 

 

~^~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thanks to Chestnut_NOLA for making this epic banner for my story! Not only is she a gifted writer (look her up on AO3!!), but she's starting to make banners - and they're fabulous, and I'm grateful <3


	2. King vs King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond can pick locks.  
> Bond can steal all the minions' money at gambling.  
> Bond can drive Q bloody insane.
> 
> Q can maintain his patience.  
> Q can surprise Bond.  
> Q can pity his minions for gambling with a 00-agent. 
> 
> _Both_ of them can play chess...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked my rather whimsical chapter summary there ;) Time for Q to get on more of an even footing with MI6's most deadly agent...

Suddenly, you couldn’t go anywhere through Q-branch without tripping over 007. Whenever Q evicted him, he just came back, spouting increasingly more inventive and obvious lies for why he was there, like he was teasing the new Quartermaster.  Attempts to bodily keep the agent out worked even less, of course, because none of the minions would even dream of going up against him physically (not even Q was brave enough to do that - or maybe he just wasn’t dumb enough), and Bond could pick locks. 

The fact that Bond could be friendly and charming when he wanted to didn’t help. At one point, Q had retreated into his office precisely so he could get away from news about 007 rooting around in his Branch and disturbing everyone, only to find the man sitting in his chair, relaxed as a back-alley prince and looking into a drawer Q was sure he’d locked before leaving.  Along with his office door. “You know, I never really pegged you for a Sauer kind of person,” he commented offhandedly, using one of Q’s pens to lift the 9MM out of the drawer and inspect it with mild interest. Q found himself nearly incandescent, but managed to control his temper, because the only thing worse than yelling at a man like Bond was doing so when Bond was the one closest to the gun.

So instead of addressing the fact that Bond had broken into his office and was poking through his things (which Bond was obviously goading him to do), Q took a deep breath and forced his hands to stay at his sides when what he really wanted to do was wrap them around the agent’s neck.  He didn’t care if this was MI6’s best: he was going to kill him. Just not now, when such a move would only end in embarrassment or worse for the lanky Quartermaster.

Q changed topics entirely. 

“Bond.”

“Yes?” was the immediate reply, the voice as smooth as a wine. 

“Are you lying to my minions?”

“No.”

“Are you coercing them to gamble with you?”  That one Q was actually willing to blame on his employees: if any of them were witless enough to sit down at a table with 007, they deserved to lose all of their money.

“No.”

Q took a breath and made a last grab for his patience.  Patience was good.  Patience stopped him from screaming and lunging across the table at the bored agent who was obviously spoiling for a fight.  “Are you lying to me?” he asked in the exact same tone, as if that were the next logical question, which it was.

Bond huffed an unexpected laugh, and suddenly his eyes took on an entirely different light, as if surprised that Q had thought to ask that question. In fact, if Q didn’t know better, he’d say that Bond was impressed and pleased that Q had.  Still, his reply was utterly unrepentant, and he didn’t change his tone any more than Q did: “Yes.” 

Later, Q tried to go to M, telling her that she had to do something about Bond. Unfortunately, that was when he found out that M was in the middle of a political nightmare that revolved around the man - apparently two weeks was enough time to get in trouble with three separate countries - so 007 was grounded and couldn’t be sent on another mission until the worst of the fuss died down.  That explained the man’s boredom, but not why Q-branchers were the unlucky individuals Bond was inflicting himself upon, or how they could change that before all sense of order was demolished and the tech analysts lost all of their life savings in poker. 

Finally, Q had had enough. 

More than a few of the minions knew that M had given Q permission to shoot Bond, and now that 007 had awakened them to the fun of gambling, there were all sorts of betting pools about when and where the Quartermaster would finally snap and put a bullet into the infuriating man.  Therefore, when Q suddenly strode with purpose towards his office, eyes set like chips of hazel glass behind his spectacles, a few individuals began surreptitiously exchanging money.  People were quite confused, therefore, when Q exited his office not with a handgun, but with a chessboard. 

Bond was in one of the many testing rooms where minions were supposed to be testing out new weapon designs (most of which Q had perfected or invented from scratch himself), although it was a fact of nature that no one did any work once 007 stalked into the room.  He was simply too intimidating, a fact that he was clearly aware of and flaunted to best advantage like a fox grinning at the hens.  Then, of course, those who’d grown brave enough to approach him had ended up playing cards with him, and look where that led.

So far as anyone knew, however, Bond was doing one of his slightly less irritating routines, which was to occupy a room and simply sleep in it, making sure to scare out the minions first.  Apparently, normal beds were too mainstream, or something like that.  It would probably have been Q’s best chance to lodge a bullet in him without getting caught first, but it looked, instead, as though Q was going to play chess with him. 

“Um...Quartermaster?” one of the tech analysts finally couldn’t keep quiet, and leaned out to just touch Q’s arm.  Everyone was watching now, looking like they weren’t sure what to make of this, but clearly seemed to think that it was a bad idea.  Most were thinking of the phrase ‘don’t bring a sword to a gunfight,’ or, in this case, ‘don’t bring a chess-board.’  Even idiots knew that projectile weapons were pretty much the only language 007 respected. 

“Yes?” Q turned around, chessboard still tucked under his arm and eyebrow blithely raised, as if this weren’t atypical behavior at all.  

“Well, you see, sir,” the other man said, eyeing the oblivious-seeming Quartermaster and scratching at the back of his own head uncomfortably before finally blurting, “He cheats at chess.  007, that is.”

Instead of growing shocked or worried by this, Q merely gave a measured blink behind his glasses, smiling a little in a frosty sort of way.  He knew as well as anyone else that what the man had really meant to say was: ‘ _How in the world do you plan to teach 007 a lesson with a chessboard_?’  “Good,” the Quartermaster noted cheerily, before turning around again to make his chess-date with Bond, “So do I.”

 

~^~

 

“007?”

It was probably something to mark on the calendar: Q had snuck up on a 00-agent. Or perhaps Bond was just playing, because he seemed to do that an awful lot.  Q decided to see it as a win, watching with a faint twitch of a smile on his mouth while his militant call got Bond’s attention. The man had been sitting with his feet up on a table next to a half-made EMP device, and now his eyes snapped open and his shoes hit the floor loudly as Q made his presence known. Q stood at the doorway for a bit, long enough to be sure that his arrival wasn’t going to be met with a drawn weapon, and then walked the rest of the way in unassumingly.

Regardless of whether he’d been woken from a doze or just faking one with uncanny skill, Bond was now collected and didn’t seem even the slightest bit wary of the approaching figure.  Then again, Q wasn’t exactly the type to inspire fear: bookish, lanky, eccentrically dressed, and even wearing glasses to top it all off.  His brain was the only intimidating thing about him, and he hid it beneath a moppish head of hair.  Still, he planned to now put that brainpower to good use. 

“People are telling me that you’ve been grounded.  I’m sorry to hear that,” Q opened up conversationally, moving enough things aside so that he could spread out the chessboard on the table and begin setting out the pieces.

Tilting his head in an intrigued fashion, 007 sat where he was.  Even if Q were about as intimidating as a Pomeranian, it was still unsettling how unruffled that handsome expression was - it was as if 007 didn’t have any self-preservation instincts at all.  Considering how many times he had been declared dead, maybe he truly was deficient in that category.  “Well, you know how things go,” Bond shrugged, deciding to humor Q by playing along, apparently, “People are just so touchy nowadays. You can’t even topple a small government without everyone getting their knickers in a twist.”

Q had to forcibly keep from tipping over a rook as he placed it, wondering for a split-second whether Bond was serious, and if that was what had happened. The mission reports had said nothing about overturned governments, but Q had only been here a few weeks to go through everything.  The worst of the 00-agents’ agendas was only just starting to surface as he accustomed himself to the job of MI6’s Quartermaster - which apparently translated to ‘general babysitter and enabler’ for a bunch of men with pyromaniac and/or trigger-happy tendencies. At least Bond seemed to be the only one labelled as down-right sociopathic.  He glanced up at 007 for a minute, and his raised-eyebrow expression must have been just what Bond was looking for, because the man was smirking.  Q spared a glare before setting up the last of the chess pieces. “Do you play chess?”

“Never touch the stuff,” 007 now decided to be difficult.  The speed at which the man could go from deadly to obliging to downright childish was enough to make a person dizzy.

“Good,” Q murmured dryly, already pushing a piece forward, “This will be a quick game then.” He actually hoped it would be anything but: this was his best plan right now for keeping the 00-agent in his department engaged instead of running rampant around Q-branch. 

Bond’s eyes narrowed.  They were surveying the pieces, and now Q, too.  His voice shifted tone ever-so-slightly as he reached forward, moving a pawn of his own while saying, “That’s hardly fair of you, taking advantage of a beginner.”

“I’ve heard great things about ‘learning on the fly’.  You like to do things off-the-cuff on missions, don’t you?” he asked with the mildest sort of innocence he could dredge up.  That he had already deduced from past mission reports.  

Those cutting blue eyes said they weren’t buying any of it, but that 007 was interested enough to keep nibbling at the bait.  He was lounging back in his chair, waiting for Q to make his next move. “You’re an evil man, Quartermaster.”

“I’m really not,” Q chuckled wryly at the ridiculousness of that accusation even as he made another move, the game still young but his mind already pleasantly engaged - if not by the game itself then by the fact that he was playing against 007, a man known for killing without qualms and blowing things up on a regular basis. He could have said that if he was evil, it was only because Bond was driving him to it, by putting his Branch in disarray.  Sitting back again, Q turned to wait with practiced patience for Bond to take his turn.

Glacial blue eyes skated across the board.  Q didn’t believe for one second that Bond was unfamiliar with the game, but the next move the man made wasn’t particularly stunning.  Nor was the next move.  Or the next.  Still, the man was definitely into the game, and not scaring the wits out of Q’s techies, so this was already a win in Q’s book.  The slimmer man relaxed into the chess match, propping his elbows on the table and settling his chin on folded hands, deciding to let the game go on as long as possible.

As if noticing the Quartermaster going lax, Bond switched up his game.

 

 

_~An Hour Later~_

 

 

Q’s eyes were narrowed now, his brain having gone from ‘lazily interested’ to ‘fully focused.’ Bond, too, had stopped slouching back like some indolent clothing model, although he was still leaning in quite a relaxed fashion - just now on the table.  Clearly, he’d used one of the oldest tricks in the book of lulling Q into a false sense of security, and had then tried to wipe him off the board.  Q, obviously, had retaliated, because he wasn’t exactly a novice at this and could handle a few tactical setbacks.  Of course, as soon as it became clear that Q wasn’t going to be beaten anywhere near that easily, Bond began cheating.

That was when Q started smiling.

For the most part, Q was more than able to win games of chess with relatively little effort; he was a prodigy in many things, including chess.  However, in all of the matches he could remember most enjoying, he’d cheated. It was wholly wrong and lamentably unethical, but usually it had all been in good fun - plus, only challenging partners deserved to have Q cheat against them, so they should have felt honored, really.  If the match wasn’t even fair to begin with, Q was usually too bored to do anything underhanded. Still, regardless of circumstances, there were very few occasions in which Q could push his moral code aside enough to slip in some foul play.  Now, though?

Now, Bond was cheating, too, so it was clearly a no-holds-barred sort of match.

Bond was obviously a master of sleight-of-hand, but the Quartermaster had nimble fingers, too, and equally nimble eyes.  It was easier to watch for tricks that you yourself liked to use. Pieces were slipped back onto the board, others taken illicitly.  At first, Q had just watched, marveling at how deft 007 was at this cheating thing. He’d suspected, after hearing just how one-sided the poker matches in Q-branch were going, but seeing it was another matter.  It was entirely possible (probable, even) that Q was only catching a fraction of the occasions in which 007 was bending the rules.  The worst - or perhaps best - moments were when Bond engaged him in idle conversation, artfully drawing his attention so that he’d lose focus. To say that 007 had a plethora of topics to toss about was an understatement, and Q found himself talking about everything from Egyptian politics to Pacific aquatic life, each new topic giving him a fuller idea of just how smart 007 was.  He had to wonder where Bond had picked up half of this, because knowing about the brain capacity of octopi was hardly a mission-oriented sort of fact.  Finally, after he’d watched enough illegal things happening and had joined in enough conversations about the wildest of topics (as well as doing a fair bit cheating himself), Q called the agent out.

“I am pretty sure that rook was mine, 007.”

The man simply looked back at him, that playful, tightlipped smile all for Q as the agent returned in a completely unruffled tone, “And what about that pawn of mine two moves back?”

Q flushed. He hadn’t thought 007 had noticed that. Clearly, they were both watching the other even as they bantered and played at distraction, but were mutually letting the worst of the cheating slide as if by some silent agreement. Apparently, that agreement also stated that if Q started accusing Bond of cheating, 007 would have no choice but to do the same back.  It was a conundrum… “Your move,” was what Q ultimately murmured, sitting back primly like a cat refusing to admit that it had fallen off the countertop.  Bond’s laughter was as rich and real as Q had ever heard it, and for the next fifteen minutes, the agent didn’t cheat at all.  In all honesty, Q wasn’t sure what to make of that, but he kept playing anyway.

With cheating still a constant possibility to factor in, the game continued... and continued... and continued.  Q began to get sincerely impressed as 007 continued the game, which Q had expected to beat him at after toying with him a little.  The more they played, though, the more Bond started to show that he was actually quite adept at this.  “How often have you played chess?” Q finally couldn’t help but ask, just as he couldn’t keep the faint note of impressed surprise out of his voice.  The Quartermaster’s gaze was still fixed on the chessboard, both to keep an eye out for Bond’s meddling with the pieces and because he was carefully trying to calculate the best strategy based on 007’s last move.

“Often enough to know the rules and keep in practice,” was the reply, and for once, Q was willing to bet that it was truthful.  The game had served not only to keep Bond occupied but, unexpectedly, to get him to act less like an agent and more like a human being.  Marginally.  “The rest, I suppose, is strategy.”

Q snorted, chuckling and shaking his head a bit before shifting his king. “You suppose, do you?” he chided back, “I’m sure that people you’ve beaten before are quite impressed by your modesty.”

“How about you, Quartermaster?” Bond asked in that tone of voice that Q had come to associate with the agent needling for information about a person, a reflexive habit to find out dangerously more than he needed to know about people around him. It was all hidden by a roguish grin that only went skin-deep, and made Q shiver a bit with its cunningly crafted falseness.  “Are you impressed by my modesty?”

“I’m impressed that you play this well without having any obvious overall plan,” Q grumbled, still flummoxed by the state of the board.  He was beginning to suspect that Bond played chess like he went on missions: having a vague and flexible plan, completely blowing that plan, and then simply using what skills and knowledge he had to keep his enemies guessing until they were dead.  There was no art to how 007 played, but Q had to admit, Bond used what abilities he had to great advantage as he moved pieces and kept Q from swamping him. It was rather irksome. “You were never formally taught chess at all, were you?” he accused in an almost betrayed tone.

A chuckle rolled up from Bond’s chest, as he flipped a pawn between his fingers. Q had removed it from the board sometime earlier, but it was entirely possible that it would end up in play again without Q noticing.  Cheating kept the game interesting like that.  “Jealousy’s not a flattering look for you, Quartermaster,” he chided teasingly, voice throaty and inviting and low.

“I’m not jealous,” Q pouted, still eyeing the board, “I’m trying to figure out how I’m almost losing against a person who barely seems to have any practice at this game.”

“I never said that,” 007 pointed the pawn at him, “But have you ever considered that that might be why you’re losing?”

That made Q suspicious, and his brows dipped lower involuntarily behind his glasses. “I’m not following, 007.”

Bond smiled as if he was just tickled pink that he got to tell the punchline. Quite blatantly, he explained, “You opened with the Queen’s Gambit and have been playing like a chess textbook ever since. I don’t have to have more practice than you: I just have to predict what you’re going to do.”

For a long moment, Q just stared and sputtered, mouth opening and closing without actual words forming.  It was like being hit by multiple trains at once - with 007 inexplicably driving each of them - to find that Bond not only knew the terminology but was aware of whole strategies at a time.  “Are you sure you didn’t at least go to some sort of chess camp as a child?” Q tried to find his footing and get over the fact that 007 might very well have been reading him like a book - which was, in and of itself, embarrassing, because Q hadn’t realized he was being that predictable. 

Bond moved his queen, and Q noticed that the pawn wasn’t in his hand anymore. A quick survey of the board told him that it was, indeed, back in play.  Q didn’t call him on it, deciding that 007 more than deserved it. “Quite sure, Quartermaster,” replied the man as smoothly as one of his silk ties, then shrugged, “Of course, I could always be lying to you.”

That decided it: Q was at least ninety-percent sure that what Bond was doing was a million times harder than counting cards, and unless 007 secretly found time to be a chess Grandmaster, he should not have been able to offer Q such a challenge for this long.  Even though M had warned him that James Bond was dangerously smart beneath the veneer of careless smiles and imposing muscles, Q wasn’t ready to believe just yet that 007 might better than him at this.  “If I beat you,” Q said, voice as stubborn as it ever got, his spine even straightening to show he had no intention of backing down, “you tell me how and where you learned to play chess.  No lies.”

“And if I win,” Bond shot back without an ounce of hesitation, “you have to tell me how someone as young and green as you got the job as Quartermaster.”

Q sat back, looking at him, expression flat.  He gave the agent one uncharitable blink and then raised one eyebrow. “I’m not as young as I look, and I’m not green, at least not in my field.  Just because I can’t wield a gun like you can or strangle two men at once with my bare hands doesn’t mean I’m worth less than you, 007. I merely specialize in a different category,” he explained with a mildness that was like thin ice over his voice.

The only sign that 007 might have been affected by that look he was getting was the way Bond’s eyes tightened fractionally before he smoothed his expression out again and grunted, “Are you going to accept my side of the bet or not?”

“Fine. But I don’t intend to lose.”

“No one ever does.”

 

~^~

 

As it turned out... neither of them lost.  Instead, both men were left staring at the board with only their kings left. Neither quite had the heart to call it a draw.   Likewise, neither quite had the inclination to point out that they’d lost track of time (Bond, who had an impeccable internal clock, and Q, who if nothing else should have been glancing at his wristwatch), and the game had gone on for hours. They’d even developed a timid, awed sort of audience, and the careful flicks of 007’s eyes said that he had been ignoring them up until now.

Not wanting this to devolve into a brawl now that he had a 00-agent being crowded by curious techies, Q cleared his throat and said the first thing that came to mind, “Well. That was not what I was expecting.” Which was true. He’d never played a game down to king versus king, especially against a man like 007.  Since he hadn’t actually beaten the agent and therefore wouldn’t be getting an answer as his prize, the Quartermaster was tentatively willing to believe that Bond wasn’t hiding long hours of chess practice - from the start to the finish, Bond hadn’t expressed any formal kind of style, but rather an ability to tactically apply what he knew in brutally efficient ways.   On top of that, he was an uncommonly accomplished cheat, and Q could barely pull anything over on him. “You…”  Q said, blinking and sitting back as he replayed the game in his head, with all of its unorthodox moves and unexpected gambits, “...Are disturbingly intelligent.”

A roguish smile flashed across Bond’s face, although Q doubted its sincerity because the man’s eyes still held a calculating look.  True, it was unexpected that 007 could nearly beat Q at chess with only his wits and instinct, but it was more unsettling right now how easily Bond manufactured false faces and dropped them over his head like masks. “If you’re resorting to flattery, Quartermaster, you must really want the answer to your question.”

“Need I remind you, 007, that you didn’t win the bet either - I’m not the only one who isn’t going to get an answer today,” Q reminded him calmly. 

“True,” conceded Bond with a tip of his blonde head, “But you’re forgetting one thing, Quartermaster.”  The agent stood up, an orchestrated flex of honed muscles, and it was so effortlessly predatory that Q found himself holding his breath even before Bond leaned into his personal space over the chessboard.  Q sensed his underlings shift nervously in response, and he hoped fervently that they weren’t planning to do anything heroic like save their Quartermaster from the looming 00-agent.  Just the mental image of such an endeavor was nearly enough to drive Q to giddy tears, and he hoped his minions wouldn’t embarrass him or themselves by trying any such foolishness.  By this point, Bond was finishing his sentence with a smile that always held too many edges for the unwary, “I’m an MI6 spy.  I’m used to finding information that’s hidden from me.  Actually, getting information that’s been withheld from me comes more naturally.” 

“Is that why I’ve heard so many stories of you breaking into M’s house?” Q blurted challengingly before he could think better of it, and then cursed his tongue for its habit of ignoring his brain when 00-agents were involved.

Bond merely smiled a slow, relaxed smile, like a cat that had been offered cream. His chuckle was low and deep and Q felt his mouth go a little dry, but then Bond was standing up, straightening his impeccable clothes, and padding easily towards the door. “Same time tomorrow, Q?” he tossed back over his shoulder cheekily.

Twisting to follow the agent’s movements out of habit, Q narrowed his eyes. “You want a rematch?” he guessed dubiously.  He hadn’t planned on this becoming a regular event - merely something he could corner 007 into when he got too rambunctious around Q-branch, a trick to be used on rare occasions.  Apparently that plan had worked better than expected... maybe too well.  Bond seemed genuinely eager to play chess with him again.

“Well, I figure you’ll want your king back,” shrugged 007, and then he was gone out the door.

Instantly, Q twisted back around, staring down at the board with pursed lips. A bolt of irritation jerked up his spine and he swore resignedly: the white king was missing from the board, presumably living in 007’s pocket until their next match.  Q decided not to think about what that might signify to a slightly mad agent like 007. 

 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thanks to the commenter who went to my 'Works in Progress' Google document to give me a few quick tips about chess! If anyone else saw chess-related mistakes...let it be known that I have never actually played, so forgive me...


	3. Unfortunate Imprinting Issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond has decided that Q is his favorite. Q really wishes he hadn't...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we're starting to play the game by Q's rules (~.^) Oh, and for those of you who _do_ play chess, please ignore my blatant disregard for logic concerning this game - I just need something for our two wonderful boys to play while they're figuring one another out!

Things changed... somewhat... after that.  007 was still haunting Q-branch like a homicidal duckling with unfortunate imprinting issues, but now he had honed in on Q exclusively.  Before, he’d actually avoided the Quartermaster to some extent, presumably because Q was the only one with the gall and the rank to order him to leave.  Apparently one tied game of chess had changed 007’s opinion, however, and now he wouldn’t leave Q alone. 

It became a regular thing for Q to get elbows-deep into his work and then nearly jump out of his skin as someone - ‘someone’ always meaning James bloody Bond - addressed him from no more than a hand’s-width behind him.  So far as Q could tell, startling the Quartermaster out of his mind was the sole purpose of his maneuver, because 007 usually just smiled innocently but broadly and reported to have forgotten what he came to say, or some such benign nonsense.  There was no real way to be prepared for such scare-tactics, because 007 was as silent as a bloody cat, and there was literally no other agent that could sneak like he could. Eventually Q had gotten so fed up that he had resorted to screaming at him on one memorable occasion, after a hand had appeared on the small of his back without warning and Q had nearly dropped his laptop.  In loud, strident tones that had echoed around Q-branch for whole minutes, Q had lectured about the heart-attack he was going to get one of these times, and how it would be all James’s fault.  Bond, as always, had seemed largely immune to the rebuke, but something of the Quartermaster’s utmost ire must have sunk in, because the agent did leave Q-branch, for once.

007 had obviously found something interesting about Q, however, because even being screamed at hadn’t dissuaded him - it had just encouraged him to change tactics. The sneaking-up-on-Q bit petered off somewhat, but then Q’s things began to go missing, and were returned in a generally deteriorated condition.  It was generally small, simple things: pens, Q’s stapler, even his personal paper-shredder ended up dying a mysterious death that may or may not have had something to do with a 00-agent feeding it large paperclips until it choked.  All of these victims were small-time game to a man with a penchant for destroying things like 007 had (whose record was two airplanes and a tank all on one mission), but it was still vexing to return to his desk to find all of his pens neatly arrayed across the top of it - in multiple pieces.  It was honestly like owning a cat who insisted on dismembering all of the other small family pets and then giving the body parts back as ‘gifts’. Whenever accused of doing anything, Bond just smiled charmingly and denied all involvement.  Q tried to catch him on video, but the man had had years of training at either avoiding or dismantling security cameras, and unless Q wanted to install at least a dozen more around Q-branch, he was going to be outmaneuvered.

Of course, that was only if Q played by conventional rules, and Q already knew that he wasn’t going to win that way. 

The first time that Q rigged one of his pens to explode was most rewarding, and a bit scary. Q hadn’t even known that James had broken into his office again until there was a percussive pop, a muffled shout, and a bit of noise coming from the room, audible to Q and most of his tech-analysts as they worked on the main bank of computers.  “It’s probably just a certain blue-eyed monster lurking in my office,” he called in as dry and disinterested a voice as he could muster, as if it were perfectly normal to be retaliating against a 00-agent in this fashion. Hopefully 007 wouldn’t decide to come out and _re_ -retaliate with a gun, because then Q would probably regret loading the pen to shoot ink everywhere rather than rigging it with serious explosives.  The Quartermaster kept his eyes on his work, aware of but ignoring the wide-eyed way his minions were looking between him and the soft cursing echoing from his office. 

Q eventually had to yell at everyone to get back to work, and somehow he must have missed 007 slipping out of his office, because the room was empty by the time he checked.  There was an appreciable amount of ink everywhere, too, but Q had already bribed the janitors who would be responsible for cleaning it.  00-agents weren’t the only ones who knew how to plan out things like this. Quite happy with himself, Q went back to work, and was smirking just a little bit for sometime after that, right up until he felt a large, calloused hand fall on his shoulder while he was coding. 

“You thought that was pretty funny, didn’t you?” mused the low, rumbling voice, edging Q’s ear with crushed-velvet sound and making a shiver run up his spine. Bond’s head was right next to his, and the agent had snuck up on him without any sort of warning whatsoever - not even from the rest of the minions.  There was the barest edge on that voice like rust on a blade that hinted that 007 was _not_ amused.

Taking a split second to decide that he didn’t feel a gun or a knife pressed against him (a good sign, all things considered), Q opted for a cool tone and forced his fingers to keep coding.  “About as funny as petty property damage, if I’m being truthful.” 

There was a noncommittal (and still not friendly) hum next to his ear, still near enough that he could feel a warm rustle of air that was almost intimate. “And what exactly convinced you to rig a pen to explode on an agent whose ingrained reaction is to shoot first and ask for apologies later?”

Because Q apparently didn’t know how to quit while he was ahead, he replied distractedly while fixing a line of type on his screen, “Probably the fact that I was running out of writing utensils.  Plus, I always root for the underdog, and it seemed like a fairer fight between you and my pens when both parties were armed.”

Instead of being gutted from pelvis to ribcage on the spot, Q was greeted by surprised laughter, a rolling bark of sound that surprised him enough to get him to turn at long last from his computer.  Bond’s voice was coming from further away and his hand had been removed, so Q swiveled around in his chair with a befuddled blink, finding himself staring up at a crooked grin and crinkled blue eyes.  007 was now leant back against the opposite desk, dressed in a new set of clothes from earlier but still with a faint smudge of peacock-blue ink just at the edge of his jaw and under his short fingernails - probably left on purpose, because if the man could get rid of bloodstains, he could get rid of ink. “One point to the new Quartermaster,” chuckled 007, folding his arms contentedly but still watching Q closely like a puzzle he wanted to take apart piece by piece.  The look made Q shift uncomfortably, feeling as if 007’s eyes were picking at his seams, fraying him meticulously at the edges only to sew him back together again under that arctic-blue intensity. Unexpectedly, Bond unfolded his arms to show Q’s king - which had still not been returned to him - which he tossed idly from hand to hand.  “So tell me, Q, should I be worried about this being booby-trapped, too?”

“I’ve only started setting traps for you since you started mass-murdering my things,” Q said automatically before he realized that it would have been a better effort to lie, disregarding the fact that 007 was far better than him at lying. The canny look that 007 was directing at him hinted that the same thought had crossed his mind. “But since you seemed to enjoy playing me, hopefully you realize that I can hardly give you that rematch if I’m missing my king.”

“Oh, I enjoy playing you,” Bond shamelessly replied, the roll of his voice and the slant of his mouth effortlessly making the sentence mean more than it said, especially since his pitch had dropped an octave.  The blatant innuendo made heat rise up Q’s neck, and he had to take a deep breath and purse his lips to keep from getting irritated and rising to the bait. He reminded himself that innuendos were just another weapon to 00-agents, and 007 flirted as easily as he breathed.

“So you’ll give it back then?”  Boldly, as if he hadn’t just covered the man in ink, Q held out a hand.  A fragile, breakable, totally undefended hand, with slender fingers that suddenly looked like something 007 would enjoy snapping quite easily.

Bond considered the hand like a cat canting its head at a curious and brave bird hopping within reach, then shrugged, easing forward just enough to lay the chess piece on his Quartermaster’s palm.  “Whatever my Quartermaster commands,” he cheerily replied, all smiles still.

“Your Quartermaster would like to command that you stop breaking his things and making a general nuisance of yourself,” Q grumbled, but he kept his glare on the returned chess piece instead of testing his luck with 007 any further. The man was, for once, behaving himself. “The next thing I rig will be the door to my office, and you’ll be blown halfway across the room before you touch the knob.”

“I’m hurt, Q! Are you seriously accusing me of breaking into your office without permission?”

“As opposed to breaking into my office _with_ my permission?  Yes, that’s what I’m doing.  Besides, you already admitted to getting ink all over yourself from my exploding pen, which hasn’t been anywhere but in my office - past a locked door, in an equally locked drawer.”

007 was still smiling, and the amount of charm and charisma that man could conjure up was truly disturbing.  “Semantics.”

“ _Facts_.  Spies deal in semantics - _Quartermasters_ deal in facts,” Q felt the need to point out, waving the chess piece at 007 as if it were something more intimidating than it was.  “And if you don’t want me writing up a report to M about you and your antics right now, you’ll get it through your head that I don’t care much for you flagrantly taking and subsequently destroying items of mine. Or of Q-branch.” Because it was always best to cover all of his bases with this agent.  “Are we clear?”  Q was proud that his voice hadn’t become uncertain in this entire conversation, despite the fact that a hysterical little voice in the back of his head was chittering and babbling and generally reminding him that he was being snotty to a man who seemed to enjoy killing. 

007 smiled. It was a winning smile, and would have made Q’s heart pick up its pace if he hadn’t learned to look in James’s eyes first - after dealing with the man day-in and day-out for weeks now, Q recognized the man’s expressions, the nuances of his face and gaze. Most people never saw the agent more than a few times during a mission, but Q was fast rising on the list of people who had the most contact with the troublesome double-o.  Therefore, he was able to tell immediately (and with some unexpected flash of regret) that the disarming smile hadn’t taken up residence there. This show of placating friendliness was as fake and manufactured as every other show of emotion 007 gave. “How about a rematch?” 007 decided to say then.

Q blinked behind his glasses, mentally derailed for a second.  “Now?”

“No, next year. Of course now, Q.”

That still left Q quite a bit off-balance, and he shifted uneasily on his chair but made no effort to get up and fetch his chessboard from where he’d stashed it behind the futon in his office - a location that was sure to be more secure than his locked drawers, to be honest.  “I detonate a small explosive on you armed with ink, and you respond by asking me to play chess with you.”

“Yes, Q, that appears to be what I’m doing,” Bond replied patiently but with a long-suffering roll of his blue eyes. 

“On what world does that make _any_ sense?”

“My world, Q. Now go fetch that chessboard from behind the couch before I make one of your minions go and get it.”

 

~^~

 

Chess between 007 and the Quartermaster was going to become quite an event; many members of Q-branch were watching, pretending to be just passing by as they obviously stared at the two men leaning over the board.  A few of the more avid watchers Q planned to dock the pay of, because this was obviously not what he paid them to do. 

“Still deciding whether to move your rook or your king?” 007 asked, a chuckle behind his words as he watched Q’s expression rather than the abortive movements of his hands. 

Having 007 watching one’s facial expressions to determine one’s motives should have been unsettling, but Q had already decided that he may as well not care - the agent was trained to garner bits of information from facial cues reflexively, and since Q had zero training in hiding said things, but also zero things to hide, there was nothing he could do.  He was going to be an open book to 007 no matter what he tried. “Actually, I’m trying to decide if you’re losing on purpose, or if you’ve had a head injury since the last time we played.  I recall you doing better last time.”

“Beginner’s luck?”

“Oh, I don’t believe in luck.”  Q made up his mind and moved one of his pieces in a conservative, careful move. “And I don’t believe that you’re just going to let me win.”

“And why not?” Bond finally shifted his attention back to the board, making his own move. 

“Because I honestly don’t think you’re capable of doing anything without an ulterior motive,” Q replied back, and resisted the urge to wince at how accusatory that sounded. 

Instead of anger, 007 replied with laughter.  His eyes danced with mischief as he glanced up at the Quartermaster with new interest. Q would have expected the other man to be offended, but if anything Bond looked impressed by the observation as he shifted his hand, tucking back the pawn that he’d been about to slip illicitly back into play again.  There was no reason for the man to halt his attempt at cheating - or even to let Q see - but 007 seemed to be heavily entrenched in the ‘rewards system’ in which every time the Quartermaster did something clever, Bond decided to be a little bit less of an arse to reward him.  So far as working relationships went, it was a bit twisted.  “So what do you do in your spare time, Quartermaster?” Bond asked instead of addressing the subject of his present chess strategy - or apparent lack-thereof.

The question was unexpected, and the Quartermaster looked up over the rim of his glasses with a mien of query on his face.   “Whatever do you mean?” he asked. 

“Oh, you know,” the agent went on smoothly, rolling his hand as if to encourage understanding, “Hobbies, habits, things you do for fun.  Surely even the Quartermaster has some fun from time to time.”

“Not in the slightest,” Q replied, mouth quirking, only half-lying. Now that he thought of it, he really did live a rather pathetic life when it came to separating work and play - mainly in that he did so much work that he somehow forgot the latter component most people included in their lives.  Frowning a bit at that, Q sat back, but managed a small shrug of one lean shoulder, “I happen to _like_ coding, and in case you haven’t noticed, I have a whole Branch to run. Keeping you agents alive and outfitted is more than a full-time job - it’s something of a Sisyphean task.”

“Married to your work, Q?” Bond grinned back, summing up what he was hearing.

“For your information, I _do_ have a social life,” the smaller man was quick to reply, lifting a belaying finger while turning the rest of his attention calmly to the board.  He wasn’t trying to hide anything from 007, but he also wasn’t making any attempt to impress him.  Honestly, trying to impress a man of Bond’s reputation with his own paltry romantic life was just insanity.   “It's nearly impossible to have romantic partners while carrying on a job in MI6, about which I am contractually bound to keep secret, but I do casually date.”

Q and everyone else loitering in the room knew that that was the wrong thing to say when Bond suddenly leaned forward, arms folded against the edge of the table and crystalline blue eyes all interest.  Up until now, Bond had been lazily curious, poking and prodding out of habit and occasionally finagling his way into more information about Q. The man had actually been quite relaxed, all told, for a man who never seemed to entirely let down his guard. This had been apparent in the small-talk that had been going on previously, in which Bond had talked on any and all subjects - including a few he clearly knew nothing about. At first, Q had been quite sure that 007 could convincingly talk about any topic and make the average person believe it, but then Bond had started letting lies slip through as he lounged back in his chair.  There was no way that Q had learned that quickly to delineate between truth and falsehood, so the only reasonable conclusion that he could come to was that Bond was letting him hear the lies.  In other words, Bond wasn’t trying anymore, and seemed quite amused when Q frowned at him and a few times dared to call his obvious bluff. 

Now, though, all of the focus that had been lazily spread about the room had honed in on Q again, sharpening to the by-now-familiar point.  Handsome features and cunning eyes were locked in Q’s direction, and any interest Bond had had in the chessboard had now migrated to the Quartermaster, who finally began to feel uncomfortable.  He was distinctly sure that a few of his tech analysts winced in sympathy from over Bond’s muscled shoulders.  “Really, Quartermaster?  You date?  Motherboards and laptops don’t count as dates, mind you, regardless of how you wine-and-dine them,” the agent teased with a sly curl of his mouth. 

Q refused to flush, although he admitted a breath of exasperation.  Exasperation not unlike what he’d felt over the repeated loss of his office supplies curled behind the curvature of his ribs, and Q gave Bond a frank glare, meeting the cheeky smile with unimpressed annoyance. “This is hardly any of your business, 007, but yes, I do date - some occasional company probably keeps me sane now that I’ve got this job - and said dates have absolutely nothing to do with computers or tech.” 

“Purely physical then?” 007 leaned his chin forward on one hand, growing far too interested in this topic.  In fact, he wasn’t even looking at the chessboard anymore, even though Q had removed two more of his pieces in short order.  One would think he hadn’t heard anything so tantalizingly interesting in years - or, as the case likely was, weeks, thanks to his temporary grounding from missions. A bored 007 was turning out to be a more and more troublesome thing by the minute. 

Q focused his attention on the game, making no particular effort to hide his annoyance, because 007 was a big boy, and should be able to deal with it. True, the larger man was acting as childish as someone half his age, but Q still saw no reason to accept that and play along.  “I have a photographic memory, 007, and therefore I clearly remember saying that that was none of your business,” he said with more patience than he had expected to have. The chess game was centering his mind.

To put it mildly, that didn’t put 007 off much.  The next hour was spent alternating between playing chess and trying to curb 007’s insatiable nosiness about the personal lives of Quartermasters. 007 was smart enough to back off only to come back in with smarter tactics, deftly maneuvering and controlling their conversations so that harmless small talk would veer back to Q’s free time without any warning whatsoever.  The only thing Q had to combat 007’s tricksome tongue was pure stubbornness and a quick mind of his own, and in that way, he doggedly refused to indulge in Bond’s wish to know more than he was entitled to.  By the time the hour ended, Q’s expression of dry disinterest was still firmly in place, and he’d gotten 007 into check-mate.  He blamed the win on 007’s complete disinterest in the board.

No, frustratingly, 007’s complete interest seemed to be focused on Q now.

 

~^~

 

007 had been cleared for foreign missions again.  “And not a second too soon,” Q sighed, seeing the orders on his desk and sagging back against the hard, supportive surface almost instantly. Another week had passed since he’d become 007’s favorite verbal chew-toy, and he’d played another three games of chess with him.  007 had only won one of those games, but probably because his nosiness and shamelessness had finally managed to fluster the Quartermaster to the point where his game had been affected.  After that, Q had learned that the only way to hold his own was to ignore all of 007’s nosy questions entirely, because the agent easily saw through the ‘yeses’ and ‘noes’ and clearly enjoyed divining the tones used in each and every ‘none of your business’ he was offered.  Q was quite proud of how quickly he had learned when just to keep his mouth shut, politely moving his pawns or knights and feeling smug as 007 didn’t get the response he was hoping for.  The truly surprising part was that Bond didn’t get infuriated at this - if anything, he seemed intrigued by this Quartermaster who could rebuff him so dependably.

Still, Q was glad to have the man out of MI6 and back on missions again, and gladly put together the agent’s kit and gave it to an underling to deliver. Hopefully keeping tabs on Bond would be more bearable when he was a few countries away. 

While Q’s blood-pressure went down and Q-branch began to recover from the onerous task of basically babysitting 007 for the past few weeks, Q began to learn just what it meant to oversee a mission of 007’s. 

Bond was a force of nature on the field, and all of the annoying playfulness was gone to be replaced by ice-cold efficiency that was just a bit terrifying to follow. As opposed to how he’d been in Q-branch, 007 required very little babysitting in the field - although, in the absence of it, he tended to get into trouble.  He got out of said trouble on his own almost faster than anyone could track, but the repercussions led Q to understand where Bond’s track-record for destruction of property came from.  Q swiftly despaired of getting anything back in one piece - Bond was hard on tech no matter where he was.  007 was also stubborn. Mindblowingly so. When Q told him to go left, he wouldn’t necessarily turn right out of spite, but he’d definitely follow his own advice before bending and following Q’s.  Finally, Q just gave up yelling at him when this happened. Instead, he gave his instructions, shut his mouth, and waited until the agent got himself into a fix and realized that he should have listened to his Quartermaster.  After one memorable occasion when Bond had lost his target in traffic instead of taking Q’s advice to turn off on a different road, the Quartermaster had listened to him swearing for a moment before saying dryly and calmly, “Well then, that was helpfully educational.  Let’s try this again, shall we?”

Bond’s growl had been low and threatening, full of annoyance through the comm system that he miraculously hadn’t lost or damaged yet.  “Q, if you weren’t an ocean away-” he had started.

“Please, spare me the threats, 007,” Q had cut him off with a puff of a sigh, unruffled as he had drawn up an alternative route that would still get Bond to his fleeing target, “You and I both know perfectly well that you could kill me, so let’s skip that reminder and get back to work.  If you take the next alley on the right, you can pick up your target’s trail before he hits the border.”

After that, things got a bit easier.  Apparently Q had won the seal of approval from MI6’s most dangerous agent, proving that the new Quartermaster had some incredibly useful tricks up his sleeve when it came to surveillance or tech.  007 actually expressed gratitude once because he didn’t have to shoot all of the security cameras anymore - Q could wipe their footage far more easily. “I also happen to use them to keep track of you, all the better to keep your skin in one piece” Q reminded with a carefully warning tone, hoping to convince Bond not to shoot cameras out of reflex now.

At that moment, Bond turned and grinned faintly up at a nearby camera, as if seeing his Quartermaster watching at the other end.  That smile made sinful look good as 007 smirked up at the lens and murmured so the earpiece barely picked it up as a low rumble of sound, “I know you do, Q.”

“Damn it,” Q murmured to himself after muting his mike, suddenly knowing without a doubt - just from hearing that tone of voice and seeing that glint in pale blue eyes - that 007 was planning something devious.  Quickly, Q turned his side of the comm system on again, hoping he didn’t sound just a bit frantic as he reminded sternly, “The mission, 007.”

The agent was striding away again, allowing himself to be picked up on another camera so Q could follow him.  “Always, Quartermaster,” was the smug reply, right before 007 began shifting focus from his target to his target’s _wife_.

It made logical sense, in a horrible and shameful sort of way: the wife probably had access to the information her husband had, and was herself more accessible to someone with James’s wiles.  Of course, James himself was both horrible and shameless, so Q shouldn’t have been surprised. “Bond,” he informed the agent, after it became clear where this was leading, “it’s late here and most of Q-branch has gone home.  I’m still watching, but I’ve got only a skeleton crew for backup, so if at all possible, don’t get yourself into a fix that I can’t get you out of with the resources available.” Q wasn’t being flippant either: all of the agents of MI6 were his priority, and the more he settled into his job as Quartermaster, the more protective he felt over them. If his underlings hadn’t been dropping from exhaustion, he wouldn’t have sent them home to leave 007 without the added backup. 

“Understood, Quartermaster.”  James was being unexpectedly compliant today.  “I’ve got a question,” he posed unexpectedly, lips barely moving as he strode through dimly lit halls. 

“And hopefully I’ve got an answer,” replied Q immediately.  He should have been collapsing with fatigue, too, but Q had always done remarkably well running purely on caffeine and dry, semi-professional snark.  “What is it you need, 007?”

“Have you got the security cameras for this place under control?”

Of course he did. “I’ve already hacked into their system, and any pertinent cameras are sending looped footage to their guardroom. Might I mention that this place has quite a lot of cameras, and keeping tabs on all of them is quite a pain.”

“I’ll pay you back.”

“No, you won’t. Paying me back would be returning all of your equipment in one piece, and I’ve already seen you damage or lose practically everything but your gun,” Q shot back without having to think. Irritation that he’d long since resigned himself to sizzled up his spine as he typed and kept watching screens.

He watched one video feed that showed Bond’s mouth quirk up at one corner. “I guess I’ll just have to find another way to pay you back then.  Tell me, Quartermaster: blonde or brunette?”

 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now the sexual side of this story picks up just a bit! Anyone want to guess what's coming next? I can assure you, Q does not see this coming... XD 
> 
> Also - I have now referenced the title in the fic! My life is complete :3


	4. Dog of MI6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q learns more about Bond. Bond pays him back my learning more about Q. 
> 
> And in amidst all of this, Q is attacked by a mugger. If only life could be boring for an MI6 Quartermaster...
> 
> [There is some sexual content in this chapter...don't know if anyone really needs the warning...]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally - the end to the little cliffhanger I gave you last time ;) I may be gone for the next few weeks! I've been posting very fast in the hopes of appeasing everyone while I go on vacation (and on said vacation, wifi may be at a minimum...because grandparents don't seem to do wifi...) - I should be back in the middle or end of August, however, and will post in between then if I can!

“What?” Q felt his thoughts momentarily derail. He stared dumbly at the computer screen for a moment, distantly glad that no one was watching at the moment (the few tech analysts still in Q-branch were actually napping in various break-rooms and assorted couches set up exactly for long nights like these, waiting for Q’s call if he needed them). 

Apparently Bond answered that question for himself as he unexpectedly turned down another hallway, abruptly finding his target’s maid. 

Q groaned in exasperation, rubbing the bridge of his nose and telling himself he should have seen this coming.  Bond was a pragmatist, and very good at finding the best path to getting a job done - even if that path was not immediately obvious to his superiors. Thinking it over now, Q could see that seducing the maid would give 007 just as much access to his goal as the wife, possibly with fewer dangers involved, too.  Q didn’t have a fraction of Bond’s experience dealing with and manipulating people, but he couldn’t fault the agent’s logic, although he was slightly surprised when Bond didn’t turn his earpiece off when he had the chance.  “Bond…?” Q said slowly, volume already turned down so that he wouldn’t be audible to Bond’s soon-to-be-bedmate. Other agents had ended up in sexual encounters while Q was on watch, but most of them had turned their earpieces off and found a place without cameras.

Bond had done neither.  Q nearly choked on his own tongue and went red up to his ears as Bond - already kissing the brown-haired woman breathless, her curves pulled tight against him - backed into a room well-equipped with a watching electronic eye.  Q actually remembered this room: Bond had rifled through it earlier, asking with suggestive derision why a man would have a guest bedroom fitted with a security camera.  At the moment, Q couldn’t remember what answer he’d given besides some scoff about paranoia, but it was obvious that Bond remembered the camera because his blue eyes glinted with mischief as they danced up to the lens - and the Quartermaster beyond it.  Q swore, sharply and fluently, not muting himself this time as he tried to figure out just what the devil Bond thought he was doing.

Besides the obvious, of course - because it was clear that he had every intention of ‘doing’ his target’s maid.  Right here. Where Q could watch.

None of MI6’s agents were particularly shy, and Bond was the least, Q had already heard. Now he watched, slack-jawed and stunned, as skin replaced clothing in his rather perfect range of view. The maid was stripped first, and with a level of meticulous care that made Q’s face heat because it was clear that Bond was playing - with Q or with his present catch, there was no telling. Deft hands slipped cloth away with movements alternating between rough and gentle, the man himself showing the same traits.  At some moments 007’s strength was clear, a powerful flexing of muscles making Q tense before the movement would gentle, all of this keeping Bond’s partner on her toes and completely distracted.  Bond mouthed at her jaw, murmuring husky encouragements that Q heard all too clearly, and the woman responded with a half-moaned laugh and obliged to lift up James’s shirt. A moment later and the article of clothing was skinned off with a twist of motion, more clothing soon following.

Q had grown up in a large family, and was of a practical personality, so inevitably he was fairly inured to the sight of naked skin.  However, there was a difference between seeing casual nudity on the occasional basis and seeing James Bond fucking someone perfectly in plain view.  Q honestly couldn’t believe the man was doing it.  This had to be for the Quartermaster’s benefit, since 007 knew that Q had him on camera and that no one else was in Q-branch right now, so this was evidently a novel trick of 007’s to unsettle his new handler.  Q gritted his teeth together, silently refusing to be discomfited, if that was the agent’s plan. 

There was also the possibility that 007 was simply showing off... and from what Q knew of his temperament, that was almost the most likely possibility. James hadn’t really tried to scare Q off all that much since meeting him, instead preferring to annoy him and watch him and occasionally make him uncomfortable.  It was impossible to tell if Bond was a sadist some days, but he was clearly an exhibitionist when the situation called for it.  Now, from time to time, a lazy grin made its way to the camera while Q scoffed and the woman moaned and arched.  Yes, 007 was definitely trying to impress his Quartermaster in the most purposefully awkward way possible. 

If this weren’t a mission and the woman weren’t so close to Bond, Q might have said something sarcastic into the comm-link, just to see if he could mess up the man’s rhythm.  Instead, Q took a deep breath, tried to control the rampant blush staining his face, and settled in for a long night of watching 007’s back.  Literally.  There was quite a lot of said back to watch, with broad shoulders clenching and arms shifting, the dim light painting the blade of one shoulder as it arched, a testament to grace and power all in one.  Since the man was obviously encouraging staring, Q did, and couldn’t help but be impressed by pretty much everything he saw.  From head to toe, the man was fit, a honed weapon of MI6 - and right now he was bringing a woman to completion with his mouth over hers to greedily swallow any cry she made. 

After that, there was pillow talk.  Quite a lot of it. Bond was good at what he did, which included being almost terrifyingly skilled at steering conversations where he wanted them to go.  Even Q, who was a genius by any standards, knew how hard it was to keep information from the man once small-talk began, and Q had never been sex-addled either. Bond lay out on his side, for all the world the considerate lover, hand stroking over smooth, pale curves that he somehow managed never to block Q’s view of.  The damn man was still grinning, even if it had a sleepy edge to it now for his partner’s benefit.  Now that Bond was slightly further away from the woman’s ear, Q dared to turn his side of the mike back on and promised quite sincerely, “Next mission, all you’re getting from me is a water gun.  End of story.” 

He saw 007’s shoulders twitch, one hand stilling as it slid down the panting curve of the woman’s stomach, but other than that the agent gave no indication that he’d ever heard.  Less than an hour later and Bond - once again dressed, his partner forgotten and asleep in the rumpled bed - had the data and was on his way home, leaving Q with one last devilish smile through the security cameras.  “You egotistical prat, you’re lucky I don’t just leave that camera footage for the guards to find,” Q muttered to himself after he had hacked the airport’s system to ensure that 007 had safely boarded the plane back to London.

 

~^~

 

Watching Bond seduce women became a regular thing. 

It was part of the man’s job, Q realized, but it was becoming clearer and clearer that all of 007’s reputation as a womanizer was well deserved. He knew just which women to bed to get the information he wanted, and he knew just how to go about it: the man could be breathtakingly rough with one partner and then terrifyingly gentle with the next, all with equal skill and lack of hesitancy. Sometimes he kept his bedmates poised on the edge for hours, which would have seemed excessive except the results were undeniable: 007 could seduce whomever he wanted, and after he was done with them, he usually got whatever answers he was seeking, too. The skill with which he played people was possibly more terrifying than his ability to kill people.

Q wondered if people realized Bond never seemed to bed women just for fun, however - unless that fun included embarrassing Q, who had no choice but to be a witness unless he wanted to shirk his responsibilities.  Maybe this should have offended or maddened Q, but the more he watched the more he thought he understood Bond.  Sex was a common occurrence for 007.  A mundane one, even, long since disconnected from anything recreational or truly intimate.  Other agents used sex as a means to an end, but they always had to work to detach themselves from the intimate aspect of it - 007 didn’t.  Whatever it was that normal people had that made a connection between two lovers, in 007 it was utterly lacking, a fact that made him only slightly more useful than it made him downright dangerous in general. He was a gun without a safety.  

Bond had barely been back in MI6 since that first mission, his skills being in high demand elsewhere, but tonight he’d returned with enough injuries to be sent to Medical - meaning Q had the evening off.  He didn’t even feel guilty about the last mission going south, because that had been Bond’s fault entirely, what with his brilliant idea to blow up the boat he’d been on.  From the preliminary reports he was already getting on his phone, it looked like all of the wounds Bond had sustained were relatively minor, although he’d have to stay under observation until it was ascertained whether he was going to have complications from smoke inhalation.  Smirking to himself as he dug in his pocket for the keys to his flat, Q made a mental bet that 007 would be up and running again in half that time, or else Medical would evict him for being a menace.  007 was synonymous with unpredictable nowadays, but there were still some things that a person could depend on when it came to the blue-eyed agent - like all double-oh’s, he hated Medical. 

Q was still pondering the mystery that was James Bond when a rush of noise behind him was almost immediately followed by a hard pain of impact to the back of his ribs. The hit was sharp and sudden enough that Q dropped his keys, and subsequently dropped to his knees, startled and feeling as if he’d just forgotten how to breathe.  Sitting in a heap on his doorstep, he struggled to drag in a breath for a moment, pain still rippling up the middle-right quadrant of his back. His attacker loomed into view as he turned his head. 

A barrel-shaped, male figure in dark clothes and a ski-mask rapidly loomed over him, taking the few stairs up to the doorstep with more alacrity than befitted a man of such beefy build.  Q had also wanted to squeeze in a bit more work at Q-branch (before either another mission demanded his attention or 007 was loosed from Medical), so it was late now - after dark - and Q’s attacker blended neatly with the night all around them.

Q clenched his teeth and tried to get his legs back under himself even before he’d dragged in another breath, knowing that if he didn’t, he’d likely get a second punch to match the first - only this one might do more than knock the breath out of him.  The placement of the punch was doing a lot to keep him from shouting for help, and Q knew he had a limited amount of time before his much larger attacker either did whatever he’d come to do... or silenced the smaller man permanently. 

Q acted on instinct (and the finite amount of self-defense training that he’d taken shortly before taking his job at MI6), swiping out with one leg when it didn’t seem like he’d have enough time to brace it under him to stand on it. His unexpected retaliation was met with swearing and stumbling as he nearly sent his attacker back down the four steps, only a swift grab for the rickety railing saving him.  Immediately, Q dove for his dropped keys, coughing as his lungs finally jerked and expanded again like normal.  Before he could wrap his fingers around the keys, however, a heavy boot descended on his wrist, sending pain spiking all the way up to Q’s shoulders so that he emitted an involuntary cry of shocked pain. His attacker then leaned down to push at Q’s coat, digging around as if to find his wallet. 

Q happened to know that his wallet wasn’t in his coat - but it was in the messenger bag he’d had slung over one shoulder, but was now half lying on top of. Thankfully, his laptop he’d left at MI6’s headquarters, so there was nothing else in his bag except some designs he’d been working on in his spare time and one of the ear-pieces that 007 had somehow managed to deactivate without causing any visible damage to. It was quite ironic and pathetic, really, that he seemed to be falling victim to a mugging, but at least he had very little of import on his person.  That thought would only be a minor comfort if he died, however, so Q jerked around as best he could until his other hand reached his keys - or, specifically, the innocuous looking little key-fob with the small silver button at its base.

Immediately the air was filled with trumpeting shrieks, sounds loud enough to just about wake the dead being emitted from Q’s key-ring.  It was enough to make the Quartermaster’s attacker rear back, actually clutching his ears beneath his ski-mask, although it drove his boot down harder against Q’s wrist.  Barely able to hear his own cry of pain over the alarm from his key-fob, Q wrenched his arm loose, feeling something pull in his shoulder as he did it but not caring. He found himself sitting against the railing and his doorway, discomfort tightening his features and adrenalin making his every breath feel tight and hot, staring up at his attacker and wondering whether the obnoxious shrieking of the alarm would be enough to scare him off.  Just in case it wasn’t, Q began to coil himself to fight back, hoping that this idiotic bravery stayed with him until the danger was over - because besides bravery, he didn’t have much by way of defenses.  Q worked with 00-agents - he was well aware that he wasn’t one himself.  He’d honestly be lucky if he could land a punch or shove the man back down the stairs. 

Fortunately, the masked figure stared with growing mortification between Q, the swiftly-awakening street around them, and the impossibly noisy alarm Q had set off.  Apparently, this mugging had not included a target capable of engineering a siren-loud alarm out of something barely larger than a single joint on a man’s thumb. ‘ _When you can’t be dangerous_ ,’ Q found himself thinking, ‘ _be obnoxious_.’  He was pretty sure that that adage should have actually ended with ‘intimidating,’ but the pain from his wrist and the blurring roar of his adrenalin seemed to be messing with the finer details of his recall.  Or else it was activating a rather morbid sense of humor that he hadn’t thought he possessed. 

Before Q could think any more on the matter, one of his neighbors suddenly threw open her door, shouting, “What in the world is making that god-awful noise?!” and Q’s attacker made up his mind to go racing back into the darkness. Q sagged back in relief, head tipping back against his door bonelessly as he considered how that ‘god-awful noise’ was actually the sweetest thing he’d ever heard. 

 

~^~

 

News spread like wildfire around MI6, especially in Q-branch, where apparently no one had enough work to keep them busy, forcing them to supplement their time with gossip and other rumor-mongering.  Q would have to give everyone more tasks to do if they were this bored, he reflected as he was more or less mobbed at the door upon returning to his branch later the next day.  He’d spent the night in the local hospital, calling M immediately to let her know that he’d been the victim of an attempted mugging, and to prepare for some paperwork on her desk, as the local police inevitably would get involved.  M had been clearly displeased by the news, but mostly had been glad that her Quartermaster hadn’t been seriously injured - the idea of dealing with the local authorities barely bothered her, so far as Q could tell. Then again, she was used to dealing with the international mayhem caused by the 00-Programme, so keeping Q’s incident under wraps was likely a walk in the park for her by comparison. Q was discharged from the hospital and walking around in MI6 with his arm in a sling barely twelve hours later.

His wrist wasn’t quite broken, but it was in a cast - the only saving grace was that it was his left hand, leaving his dominant hand free of injury.  Besides that, his shoulder had also been strained, necessitating a sling for the time being on the same arm, and the bruise on his lower back was nothing to laugh at either.  All told, however, Q didn’t feel too bad.  For the first time in his memory, he’d been given the right amount of pain medication to dull his aches without dulling his mind, and while he’d be coding one-handed for awhile, he was more than capable of storming around Q-branch keeping everyone in line.  There was something fun, actually, about delegating…

Q had only been back in his branch for half an hour or so when a familiar face appeared, all blue eyes and short blonde hair.  Said blue eyes were presently narrowed with as close to a troubled look as Q had ever seen, and it took a moment for Q to realize that 007 was more or less glaring at his Quartermaster’s cast.  “Oh,” Q said lightly, lifting his arm slightly in its sling and putting on a distracted smile, “It would appear we both spent last night under the care of medical professionals.  And that we were both dismissed somewhat earlier than expected.”  The smaller man couldn’t help but smirk just a tiny bit, going back to his mental bet about how long Medical would be able - or willing - to keep James under their watch. 

The agent was far less amused, and demanded as he strode up to Q, “What in hell happened to you?”

It was hard - if not impossible - to tell if Bond was actually worried or just didn’t like surprises, so Q blinked while the agent circled him warily. Q answered as calmly and idly as before, however, ignoring the uneasy glances he and Bond were getting from the other Q-branchers, “An attempted mugging, if you’d believe it. I’m afraid I can’t get hospitalized for the interesting reasons that you usually have.”

“You were mugged?”  One blonde eyebrow arched.

“Attempted,” Q repeated, lifting a finger on his good hand as he made the point. “I managed to draw attention to myself before things got out of hand.  Well…” He frowned, casting an irritated look down at his casted arm, feeling the slight stiffness in his shoulder as well. “...More out of hand. The doctors told me no bones were broken, but they bloody insisted on this ridiculous cast anyway.” His frown turned to a glare as if the contraption had personally offended him.  He shook his arm again, looking as if he wanted to wriggle loose of everything.  A hand on his elbow stopped him.

When Q looked back up, the 00-agent who had broken all of his tech was back, smirking with amusement as he took in Q’s obvious annoyance.  Although Q squinted and looked for it, he couldn’t see even the faintest sign of the worry that had flashed over 007’s face a second ago - it had been obliterated entirely, making Q wonder if it had been as much a mask as any other emotion the man expressed.  Q wanted to ask, but wasn’t sure precisely how one went about posing such a question.  Gently extracting his arm from 007’s grip, Q collected himself and asked with his usual professional tone, “Is there something you needed, 007?”

“Are you sure you’re not too crippled to help me?” 007 retorted with a smirk stretching his features.  The expression was too sharp to really soften his question into a joke, but Q had a good enough handle now on Bond’s most basic moods not to be riled.  Instead, he let the taunt roll off him, keeping his expression bland and untroubled as he blinked at the agent. 

“If you want someone shot left-handed, then I’m afraid I’ll be useless. However, to be fair, I’d be useless at such a task regardless of whether I was in a cast or not.”

007 actually laughed, a chuckle escaping him as an unexpected smile stretched his mouth and put crow’s-feet at the edges of his eyes.  He looked... honestly delighted with the back-talk. “Well then,” he replied with cordial smoothness and even a genteel little dip of his head - almost a bow as he played along, “it’s a good thing I’m only here to turn in my tech then, isn’t it?”

After that, Bond totally and completely ignored Q’s sling and cast, never once giving even the faintest impression that he knew they were there.

 

~^~

 

The next two days went fairly well considering the circumstances.  No word yet on the mugger who had attacked the Quartermaster, but said Quartermaster was healing up nicely.  The pain medication didn’t last near as long as he had hoped, and taking more barely took the edge off, leaving him more drained than expected by the time evening rolled around.  However, MI6 was experiencing a lull in between missions, so besides 002 discreetly gathering information down in Africa, most everyone was resting and regaining their strength. The combination of wounded-Q and light-workload was fairly conducive to healing in the long run.

Instead of taking public transportation like he usually did, Q was given a ride back to his flat by a bloke he knew now.  Said bloke had no idea that Q was actually the Quartermaster of MI6, but that was typical for Q’s acquaintances.  This fellow was something more than an acquaintance, and kissed Q on the cheek as they entered the bespectacled man’s flat three evenings after the attack. “You sure you’re going to be okay on your own?”

“Yes,” Q replied, trying to keep his voice warm when really he was getting annoyed with the other’s worry.  This was a conversation that had happened pretty much every night after the story got out about the attempted mugging - which wasn’t that big a deal to Q, who worked with international espionage and gunfights on a day-to-day basis. It made it hard for him to understand his sometimes-lover’s worry. 

“You sure? I can stay over.” Another kiss pecked at his cheek.

The kiss had been closer to his mouth, but Q just smiled thinly, feeling his manners fraying the tiniest bit.  He really just wanted to go to bed, although only for sleeping purposes.  He gathered himself enough to give a proper kiss back, although it was brief and economical, befitting their relationship entirely, if Q was to be frank.   “Go home, Marcus. Really, I’m fine. Thanks again for the ride.” He began edging away to try and find the light switch, so he wouldn’t trip over anything and hurt himself worse in his darkened flat. 

“All right then - if you’re sure!  Call me in the morning and I can give you a ride to work again, Ethan.”

Q’s attention was already on other things - prototypes he’d left half-finished in Q-branch, algorithms he wanted to try out tomorrow, foreign security systems he almost had hacked - and he’d never been good at answering to his aliases anyway. He managed a friendly sound of goodbye, still fumbling for the lightswitch by the time Marcus’s gangly form had left. Q swore a bit in annoyance, furiously promising to rewire the whole apartment as soon as he got the time, and finally found the switch to fill the room with light.

And found someone sitting on his couch. 

Being mugged once in his life had been more than enough for Q, so he was slightly more armed than he’d been previously: he had a taser in his hand almost before he knew it, aiming it at the figure before blinking.  He eased up marginally on the taser’s trigger a second before he would have set it off, staring and trying to decide whether he was more terrified or furious.

007 smiled lazily.  “Are you going to shoot me or not, Q?”

“ _Bloody_ …!”  Q cut himself off, not wanting to give the smug agent the satisfaction of hearing him swear a blue streak, hands and weapon dropped to his sides as the adrenalin stopped pounding through his system.  It still left him buzzing with energy, however, and more than a little temper. “What the hell are you doing in my flat?!” he exploded.

“Just checking on my favorite Quartermaster,” smiled the man without missing a beat. He had a tumbler in one hand no doubt filled with something from Q’s admittedly sparse liquor supply, and looked indecently comfortable sprawled on Q’s couch; the way Bond commanded space somehow made the piece of furniture look small.  “I was curious as to how you’d been getting home without jostling that arm of yours on the tube.  I guess I have my answer now.  Marcus, did you say his name was?”

“Marcus is none of your business,” Q replied, but his anger was abating. He rolled his eyes, mostly to himself, knowing that it never did any good to get mad at 007. People were mad at the agent nearly ninety-percent of his life, so the effect had undoubtedly worn off a long time ago.  He put the taser back away again, tapping its casing pointedly first as he noted to the agent in his flat, “I could have shot you, you know.”

“Wouldn’t have killed me,” 007 shook his head, unbothered.

“Yes, but the fact that it is nonlethal means that statistically I’ll be twice as likely to use it,” was Q’s logical and unflustered response, as if he were trying to lecture a child on why it was bad to run out into the street without looking first, “No fear of the consequences means no hesitation.  Even now, I’m tempted to shoot you with it just to see you seize up and start thrashing like a landed fish.” 

007 just continued to smile at that, mischievous, cunning eyes watching Q’s movements as the small weapon was put away despite Q’s threats.  It was all true, what the Quartermaster had said: with a gun, Q would never have had the guts to pull the trigger and he knew it, but the taser was much more up his alley.  He’d even tweaked it a bit in Q-branch after acquiring it, ensuring peak efficiency and ease of use.  Against 007, however, it seemed that nothing short of a nuclear warhead would get much of a response, so Q did the sensible thing and gave up while he was ahead. “You still haven’t answered my question as to why you’re in my flat,” he pointed out.

“Yes, I did. I said I was checking on my favorite Quartermaster.”

“Let me rephrase that.”  Q dared to walk up and take the drink out of 007’s hand, meaning to put it away but pausing a moment, tempted to just throw it back.  Only the knowledge that his medication didn’t go well with alcohol and the fact that he wasn’t much of a drinker to begin with stayed his hand. Still, he wondered how many people Bond had driven to drink...  Q walked towards the kitchen while trying to calm his still-racing heart a bit. “You haven’t answered my question _truthfully_.”

“Now that just hurts, Q.”

“Funny, you sound more amused than hurt.”  Q dumped the drink down the sink before setting down the glass, too, deciding to go through the trouble of washing it one-handed later - preferably when a certain athletic, dangerous agent wasn’t watching with the borderline-homicidal amusement of a Cheshire cat.  A very good-looking Cheshire cat, but then again, 007’s looks were just another weapon in his extensive arsenal.   

Q’s last dry retort earned him a chuckle from the agent.  “Okay, maybe I am amused,” 007 actually admitted, although there was still a razor-sharp light in his eyes that made sure Q didn’t relax yet, “But that’s mostly just because of your companion - I hadn’t realized that you were into men.”

“Well, I suppose there are some things that aren’t obvious even to a 00-agent,” Q allowed without rancor, busying himself in the kitchen, putting on some water to heat for tea, “And as you can see, my preferences are neither blonde nor brunette. Marcus’s hair was black, if you didn’t notice.”

“Dyed black,” was the smooth correction, and Q spun around, narrowing his eyes at the agent still reclining on his sofa.  Bond’s smile was now crawling towards his ears, clearly proud of himself.

Q could just stare for a moment.  “Are you stalking Marcus?” he finally demanded with exasperation in his tone, even when he berated himself for being at all surprised.  

Bond snorted as if he found the idea ridiculous, and retorted in a derisive, easy tone, “No, I could see that just from observation.  Stalking would imply that I cared.”  Then the man’s mercurial mood shifted, eyes becoming intense and interested and that troublemaking little smile lurking at one side of his mouth again as he watched Q.  “Should I? Are you into dating dangerous people, Quartermaster?”

Oh, this was so not how Q had foreseen spending his evening…  Pushing his glasses up awkwardly with his casted hand so that he could rub at his eyes with the other, Q leaned back against the sink and resisted the urge to groan.  “No, 007,” he finally sighed, knowing that appealing to 007’s logic was really the only way to do this.  Trying to snark back at him only caused the bastard to escalate.  “For your information, Marcus is as boring and normal as it gets - I checked for myself.  You’re not the only one who can run a background check.  I can probably run one faster, honestly.  So, no: you can give up any thoughts of stalking Marcus in the hopes of finding interesting information.  I date casually at best, but even then, I’m smart about it since joining MI6.”

“Hmm,” was all 007 said, but when Q lowered his hands again, it looked like the agent was actually accepting that answer - which was fine, because it had been totally true. Q was pretty sure that there was no point in even attempting to lie to an agent of Bond’s calibre, so he’d done what he generally did: told him what he needed to know without additional fluff or ill-conceived falsehoods. 

For a moment, the tired Quartermaster just stood and watched the agent sitting in his flat, looking about as at home as Bond did anywhere else: totally and not at all.  Something about the agent was like a seagull, going where it pleased but never seeming to roost anywhere for long.  With almost a sense of disdain, Bond never put down roots anywhere, not even in a room that he stayed in long enough for most people to get comfortable.  At the same time, Bond could pretend that he belonged anywhere. “I’m going to sleep, 007,” Q informed the agent with the same calm, logical tone that gave out information to anyone in MI6, or agents on missions.  He’d poured himself a cup of hot water and put a bag of tea in to steep, the kettle now off and the mug securely in his good hand.  He successfully managed to ignore the little shiver of fear that went up his spine at the thought of being unconscious in a house where 007 was awake and active.  “I would prefer it if you didn’t mess up my home while I’m not watching, and if you would kindly be elsewhere - perhaps your own flat - when I wake up.” With his polite commands hanging in the air (said with more care than most people would give to an agent who had just broken into their flat), Q determinedly turned and left the room, heading to bed just as he’d said he would. 

 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone curious/worried: Marcus/Q will _not_ become a thing. There is a reason they're not listed in the relationship tags. Like the chess-game, this is just a means for me to make my characters/puppets dance like I want them to. In other words, a way for Bond to find out that Q is interest in men without Q actually giving in and telling him...
> 
> Mostly, to be truthful, Marcus annoys me...and I _wrote_ him XD 
> 
> Also, if this cliffhanger is too much for anyone, feel free to ask me what happens next - but let it be known that I give out spoilers without compunction or regret, so only ask what you want the answer to! ;3


	5. Bored and Deadly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q gets a little surprise when he wakes up.
> 
> And then life returns to normal...if there is anything normal about working in MI6 with an agent who gets bored in life-threatening situations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back from vacation! With school starting up, I think I'll back off to weekly postings - so hopefully I'll get another chapter up by next weekend!

Q woke up and lay sleepily in place, ready to get up but feeling naggingly as if he’d forgotten something…

Immediately, the Quartermaster was sitting up, hand scrambling for his glasses so that he could look around.  His immediate vicinity seemed empty of generally homicidal, blue-eyed agents, but there was still the rest of the flat to consider.  Swinging his legs off the side of the bed and padding out of the room, part of Q totally expected to see his entire place looking as if a bomb had gone off in it - that was just the general effect Bond had on a place.  Therefore, Q was rather surprised when he found no evidence of mess or mayhem anywhere, or even any sign of the agent himself.

Sighing with relief, Q turned back to his room again to pull on something besides sleep-pants, also grabbing his empty tea-mug from where he’d left it on the bedside table. It was a minor miracle that 007 had left his residence without destroying something first, but Q had been quite lucky around the unpredictable agent so far, and hoped that it was a positive trend. He was just about to return the dirty mug to its fellow dishware in the sink when he realized, with a bit of a start, that the sink was entirely empty.  Feeling far too sluggish this morning to be dealing with mysteries like this, Q dragged his eyes over to the drying rack, noticing the tumbler Bond had been holding last night as well as the few other plates and silverware that had been waiting for their master and his casted arm to clean them. 

Q backed up and just sat down, placing his right elbow on the table and his mouth against his palm so he could just blink and try to let this soak in for a minute. “James Bond…” he said to himself slowly, the words mangled by his hand but echoing in the quiet nonetheless, “...Not only left my house quietly... but did my dishes.”

The slender young man was left pondering this all morning until Marcus finally called, hovering as usual and wondering if he wanted a ride to work.

 

~^~

 

“Bond,” Q greeted formally as he entered MI6 to almost immediately find 007 at this side, appearing with that eerie way he had.  Q made no mention of the empty sink he’d found this morning, although internally he was burning up with curiosity. 

Amateurs would have been bouncing on their toes with eagerness to ask whether Q had noticed his washed dishes, but Bond had gotten over that habit so long ago that he gave away nothing now.  In fact, it was entirely possible that Q had imagined the whole thing, if 007’s unreadable expression was anything to go by.  If he was wearing a slight smirk, it was only because he wore that same falsely-charming expression whenever he felt like it. “Got any toys for me, Quartermaster? I’ve got another mission to go on.”

Q snorted, “You 00-agents and your toys.  Whatever kit is waiting for you down in Q-branch contains whatever you’re going to get - sidling up to me isn’t going to get you any favors.”

“What if I promise to bring it all back in one piece?”

“I don’t think you’re capable of bringing anything back in one piece, except maybe yourself, on rare occasions.  Very rare occasions.” While it was true that 007 survived situations and missions that would have killed lesser men - honestly, MI6 spent most of its time trying to figure out how the hell he did it - he had a clear and blatant disregard for personal safety that caused him regular trips to Medical.  The man was a survivalist, but seemed to like cheating death by only the barest margin. “How about this?” Q gave in, against his better judgment, feeling an unexpected gratitude towards the man who’d cleaned a bit in his kitchen, “I’ll go down to Q-branch now and look over your mission specs, and if it warrants it, I’ll send you out with a new prototype that needs testing.  If you bring it back undamaged, I’ll be freer with my gift-giving in the future.”

Immediately, Bond was grinning, clearly pleased - although Q still thought that the majority of the expression was manufactured.  As he adjusted the sling around his arm and neck, Q actually felt a pang of sadness over that.  007 was the most dangerous, capable, cunning agent that had possibly ever graced MI6’s halls, but his smiles were never real and his every action had an end-game. Suddenly gripped by melancholy that he didn’t totally understand, Q turned away from the agent and focused on getting to Q-branch and fulfilling his promise.  “For the record, I’d trust you with more things if you could bring _yourself_ back unscathed, from time to time,” he noted with an edge of sternness. 

Bond’s broad grin had settled into one of his more usual expressions: a light look of attentiveness directed at his immediate vicinity, eyelids at half-mast but the blue irises behind them filled with crystalline intelligence as they habitually scanned back and forth.  He walked easily, hands in pockets, and Q realized with an internal jolt that the man had purposefully placed himself on Q’s injured side.  Most people would have labeled the positioning incidental, but Q was pretty sure that next to nothing Bond did was a coincidence - even the subconscious things the agent did had a purpose, buried and wrapped in instinct. This instinct was probably something along the lines of being prepared to take advantage of weakness, which made Q’s fingers wriggle uncomfortably where they stuck out of his cast.     

“I’ll return myself unharmed as soon as presumptuous villains stop shooting at me,” Bond retorted, then changed the subject, “How long do you have to keep the cast? It must be slowing you down.”

The honeyed edge to those last words made Q look up, finding an amused glint in Bond’s eyes as the agent met his gaze.  Q rather wished that the look came without the omnipresent razor edge to it, because it would have been a heart-stoppingly handsome look on Bond.  Honestly, any look was somewhat heart-stopping with Bond. Instead, this was a calculating look hidden by charm that Q had come to recognize, and the Quartermaster purposefully rolled his eyes at it.  “Slowing me down, yes.  Making me a cripple, no. Hopefully the doctors will realize that I don’t need it within a week.”

“And until then, _Mar_ cus will be ferrying you places?” prodded the agent, drawing the name out in a way that was either derisive or teasing.  Q was pretty sure that it was derisive. 

They were almost at Q-branch now, and incoming and outgoing tech-analysts were giving Q a wide berth because of 007 at his side, actually staring at the odd company their Quartermaster was presently keeping.  Q resisted the urge to glare and tell them to mind their own business, and that he hadn’t exactly asked to be intermittently tailed by a 00-agent. “Yes, Marcus will be ferrying me places,” Q admitted with a sigh, knowing that lies were useless to him, “Although, if you have a problem with Marcus, I can tell you that he’s going to get quite a talk about being overbearing.  Just because I almost got mugged once doesn’t mean I’ve been turned into a piece of fine china... and the arrangement I have with Marcus is temporary anyway.”

Interest crackled almost visibly down 007’s spine, eyes turning from lazily watching the hallway and its passing minions to laser in on Q again.  “Come again, Quartermaster?”

Q huffed a sigh, waiting until a gaggle of techies had passed them by, carrying paperwork to be signed in Accounting.  “I don’t know why I’m even telling you this…” the smaller man said, pulling open the door with his good hand and preparing to brace it with his toe as he slipped in, only to find 007’s capable hand on the edge of the door to ensure it didn’t swing closed. The agent was still watching him, keen interest in his cerulean gaze, proving that Q definitely had to stop letting slip bits of information to an agent who was trained and primed to hunt down secrets.  It was a pity he did it when he wasn’t on the clock.  “Thank you,” Q nodded briefly, then went on, “I believe I’ve told you on numerous occasions that my personal life does not affect you.  Even if you did break into my house.”

“That lock on the door is so shabby I’d hardly call it breaking in.”

“That lock is one of the best on the market,” Q deadpanned back, for once catching the lie with ease.  He slid up to one of the standing computers, typing as effectively as he could with one hand to bring up the information he wanted: yes, 007 was scheduled on a mission, departing today to France.  “An easy mission,” Q noted with something like pleasant surprise, stepping back and having to twist so as not to bump into 007 standing at his shoulder, “Maybe you’ll actually finish this one without mass mayhem.  All right then, I think I might have something extra for you to take with you - if you promise not to toss it into a river or something.”  He headed towards his office, aware of Bond following even if the man padded along with obscene quietness.

“I swear it on my life,” 007 promised as easily as most people breathed. It was easy to toss around oaths when you never actually considered keeping them. 

Q looked up from where he was already kneeling, digging in his desk, a jaundiced eyebrow raised into his hairline.  “Something you put very little value in,” he observed dryly.

The grin curled further at one side of Bond’s mouth, unrepentant. Q had just managed to find what he was looking for and popped up from behind his desk to suddenly find himself a lot closer to the 00-agent than he’d been expecting: with complete, catlike silence, the man had leaned forward across the desk, braced on his folded arms so that they were nearly nose-to-nose when Q sat up. That unsettling, crooked smirk was still there on the agent’s face.  “And if I bring myself back in one piece,” Bond pressed, and Q swallowed at the way the larger man’s voice had dropped a few octaves, the edges roughening purposefully, “will you tell me more about your boyfriend?”

“Your interest in him,” Q took in a careful breath to say, “is edging swiftly into unprofessional territory.”

“Nothing unprofessional,” Bond assured, but he was still smirking, his eyes too blue and dark to be healthy, “Just want to know if my Quartermaster is hanging around with dangerous people.”

Suddenly, Q couldn't help it: he laughed.  It jerked its way out of his chest and mouth in an unexpected explosion of air, and he was gifted with the rare sight of 007’s eyebrows abruptly lowering over suddenly-cautious eyes.  The agent stiffened in place, arms subtly flexing.  Q just ignored the warning signals and awkwardly pushed himself back to his feet, his good hand wrapped around the small object he’d pulled out of one of his ‘work in progress’ drawers.  “Bond, I hang around with you.  I don’t think Marcus could hold a candle to that even if he was a world-class terrorist,” Q replied to Bond’s statement while taking a moment to just soak in the irony.

 

~^~

 

“Just remember, 007,” Q intoned calmly into the comm system, “This is a data-retrieval mission, not a gun-fight.”

“You say that, but I haven’t even shot anyone yet,” 007 snapped back with light annoyance as he moved forward.  “I haven’t even seen anyone yet.”

“Yes, but the last camera I caught you on showed that you had your gun drawn,” responded Q civilly, although his tone turned dry as he leaned closer to the receiver and asked, “Do you know something that I don’t?”

Bond grunted, either annoyed with Q’s perceptiveness or impressed by it. “Just a hunch,” was the brief reply, and Q took that as his cue to hush, fingers constantly tapping keys to hunt down cameras that would show him his agent - and shutting down access to anyone else who might want to do the same.  While Q talked to Bond, the rest of his team in Q-branch took up the slack. Fortunately, either Bond was aware of the added audience or he simply hadn’t found a willing body yet, because he hadn’t pulled any seduction stunts... so far.  Q wasn’t willing to bank on Bond’s self-respect keeping him from making a spectacle of himself on camera, but Q himself was pretty sure that MI6’s Quartermaster would die of embarrassment just knowing that most of his minions would drool over 007 carelessly fucking someone. So far - Bond was behaving. “Miracles do happen,” Q muttered to himself.

“What was that, Q?”

“Oh!” Q roused himself from his thoughts, focusing in on 007’s voice again.  “Nothing. Just talking to myself as I hack into a few security cameras.  Status?”

“Still on my way. Still bored.”

Q blinked, fingers pausing a moment as he just stared at the screen, which was presently devoid of James Bond until he found another video feed.  “007, you’re sneaking around the residence of a suspected human trafficker and are going to break in to steal highly sensitive data from his computer.  How can you possibly be bored?”

“Seriously, Quartermaster, you have to ask that?” Bond queried back, and Q could hear the grin.  It made Bond’s words enticing and lethal all at once, like a beautifully baited trap.

“Forget I asked,” Q sighed and shook his head, and then received a warning shout from one of his minions, a moment before an image was sent to his screen: one of Q’s underlings had commandeered a more distant camera that showed some interesting things…  “Well, 007, I think your boredom might be alleviated in the near future.  I’ve got guards coming in.”

“How many?” Bond was all business now, although there was no tension in his voice: just the lethal flatness of a honed knife.

“Three. I’ll be disappointed if you break a sweat,” Q couldn’t help but tease, and got a low, husky chuckle for his troubles.

“Do you have eyes on me?” asked the agent next, sensibly.  It surprised Q how easily 007 had gotten used to the Quartermaster constantly being in his ear and watching over his shoulder - Q’s predecessors had either not had the technology or the interest in being so involved in the actions of MI6’s agents while they were in the field.  Some of the other double-oh’s were still having a hard time getting used to the supervision, and at first, Q had expected Bond to chafe worst of all at the idea.  Surely, at the beginning working with 007 had been a nightmare straight from hell. After his initial bout of stubbornness, however, Bond now moved as easily and confidently as ever with Q’s calm, dry tones regularly in his ear. 

“No, I do not, so if at all possible, try not to get yourself in a fix,” Q warned, growing a bit tense himself as he tracked the progress of his agent, “You’re almost to the building, and it would be lovely if you could get in without stirring up trouble.  Unless you get bored when enemy gunmen aren’t chasing you through buildings?”

Another chuckle, rough but pleasant like dense velvet over sharp edges. “You know me so well, Q.”

“Liar. No one knows you,” Q found himself saying, then just sat and listened to his own words, the truth echoing with surprising gentleness in his ears.  The tech analysts around him were too focused on their computer screens to be listening to the conversation. 

Before 007 could come up with some sly comment - something that Q knew would be another lie, because 007 always lied, and this time it would be to throw Q off the trail of truth he’d just found - there was the sound of gunfire. Q sat forward immediately, feeling the ache in his injured shoulder as he tensed.  “Bond!”

“Busy, Q!” was the growled reply, low and lethal enough to make the hair at Q’s nape stand on end, even though he was a whole country away.  Immediately pulling up all of the video feeds in the compound that he and his underlings could get their hands on, Q directed the images up onto the main screen, using the space now that mayhem had most definitely happened. Q wasn’t particularly surprised, because he’d seen how quickly missions could go from calm to chaos, but he still stood tensely as he moved to another computer, itching to rip his cast off so that he could be more effective.  It already looked like a storm in a bottle out there.  On top of the three gunmen Q-branch had spotted, three more had appeared.

There were only so many things Q could do from where he was - in the end, it was down to the agent and how good he or she was at staying alive versus how good the enemy was at killing.  Q was determined to do what he could, however, and he barked suddenly, “If I count down from five, can you close your eyes for a second?”

“What?” was the startled grunt, with a tone that heavily suggested Bond thought Q was talking nonsense. 

“Floodlights,” was all Q said in response.

For a moment, there was just the sound of gunfire, and the Quartermaster had to clench his fist to keep a reign of his nerves - to keep himself from doing something without the go-ahead of the agent on-site.  Already, he was resigning himself to just watching.  Then he heard 007 start laughing, finally biting out between panting, darkly amused breaths, “Well, that would definitely alleviate the boredom now, wouldn’t it?  I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

“I didn’t know you liked me at all,” Q joked back with a faint and crooked smirk, “You break all of my things and steal my chess-pieces.  Now stop messing around and be ready to close your eyes. I’ll give it two seconds and then turn them back off again - can you keep free of bullet-holes for that long?”

“I’ll manage.” There was a pained grunt, but it wasn’t from 007. 

Q counted from three instead of five, and then flooded the compound with a blaze of light with a neat tap of his fingertips.  Then, two seconds later, he plunged it back into darkness, feeling a heady little buzz of power go up his arms as he looked at what he’d done from so far away and with so little effort.  He left a few of the dimmer lights on, mimicking the previous conditions that Bond had been sneaking through, but heard a commanding growl through the comm system, “Turn them all off, Q.”

Q did so, not questioning the command, feeling his back tighten as he watched all the screens become too dark to see anything by.  “I can’t see you, 007,” Q warned, aware that his voice was tautened by the effort not to sound worried, not to mention frustrated at his present helplessness. 

“Acknowledged,” was the grunt he got back, followed by silence except for measured breaths and the more distant sounds of frustrated, blinded guards. That silence was soon after broken by some of the most efficient gunshots Q had ever heard: six sharp bangs. No comment by 007. Then nothing for a moment more until 007’s unaffected voice reported, “Guards neutralized.  Moving on to the building.” 

There were mixed sighs of relief and breaths of disturbed surprise around Q-branch. Q only gave vent to the former, but he could tell with only a brief glance that quite a few Q-branchers were deeply unsettled by 007’s ruthless efficiency, which had no peer in anyone’s memory. That hadn't been a shoot-out: it had been an execution. If Q thought on it too much, he realized that his job was basically to make dangerous men more deadly, which was a heady and disturbing thought as he considered his unhesitant handling of 007. “Good, Bond,” Q applauded, deciding not to dwell on the six quick deaths in the dark, deaths he’d delivered to Bond with barely a second’s thought and a few swiftly-typed computer commands, “I’ve already hacked most of the surveillance footage within the house, so I’ll be ready to relay directions should you need them.”

“Have I mentioned how much I like breaking into buildings that have top-notch security systems and surveillance?” came the disturbingly cheery note.

Q couldn’t help but chuckle as a pleasant warmth bloomed in his chest. Trying not to let pride get the best of him, Q returned, “Hopefully it will be some time yet before the criminal underground realizes that high-tech security measures are a detriment rather than an advantage to them, now that MI6 has a new Quartermaster. Now, are you closing in on your target?”

“Easy, Q,” rebuked the 00-agent playfully, “This isn’t exactly my first time doing this.”

If it weren’t for the obvious tone of humor in 007’s voice, the Quartermaster would have felt firmly chastised.   As it was, he just felt a bit embarrassed, and made a mental effort to back off a bit. “Apologies, 007. As you were.”  It still took a monumental amount of self-control to hold his tongue after that, and he still watched whatever camera he could commandeer to check on Bond’s progress - usually, in all fairness, Q wasn’t like this. Giving agents space to do what they did best was often the most efficient way to ensure their survival, and Q ultimately cared about the agents more than about the mission (something he doubted M would approve of).  However, the prototype that Q had given Bond was something of a pet-project of Q’s, and he was almost unhealthily eager to see it in action.

Bond kept moving like some sort of nocturnal predator, an apt description considering his temperament and skills.  He appeared and disappeared from Q’s screens, rarely illuminated by anything but the vaguest slants of moonlight through a window.  If Q didn’t know what he was looking for, he would never have seen the man at all. As it was, he sometimes saw only the briefest wet gleam of a narrowed eye, the paler grey of a shoulder tensed, or the deeper gash of a shadow as it followed the line of Bond’s back between his shoulder-blades.  Likely there were many times when 007 slipped past in full view of a camera and wasn’t seen at all, the shadows welcoming the man like an old friend.

And, of course, Q was now preventing any image from getting back to the guardroom. Q got a viciously smug feeling of satisfaction as he made sure that no one could follow Bond like he was. “Guards dispatched. A fair ways from your location, but they’re well-armed,” Q informed 007 efficiently.

“How long before they get close enough for me to worry?” was Bond’s reply, although he hardly sounded capable of worry.  Actually, thinking back, Q had heard 007 furious, amused, focused, and bored, but never worried.  One probably had to care in order to feel worry, whereas 007 was a bottomless pit of faked emotions instead. 

“Longer now that I’ve cut the power to the building’s lighting.  I hope you don’t mind running dark, 007.”

“Love it,” came the low, leonine purr. 

As it was, Bond did end up meeting with a few guards before reaching his destination - all of those he met were dispatched so swiftly and easily that most of Q-branch didn’t even register it.  A few times, Q asked, because he’d heard some soft sound that could have been more easily interpreted as someone tossing in their sleep than tangling with a 00-agent. “007... did you just kill someone?”

“Would it make you happier if I said no?”

In truth, it made Q unsettled, because it meant that Bond killed more quietly than most people walked.  Suddenly he was remembering Bond wandering his house, having broken in like a massive shadow; or before that, when Q had dared to rig a pen to explode on him, and then 007 had approached him later with rusted-metal edges of annoyance in his voice. Suddenly it felt a lot as if Q had been dancing precariously close to death, and death just happened to have blue eyes and a bladed sort of cunning that rarely cared if friends were cut alongside foes.  “Forget I asked,” Q murmured wryly before turning off his end of the comm-link again.

He almost didn’t hear the soft, considering hum in reply, “Good answer.”

It felt like hours, but it was probably only minutes later when Bond reached the computer he was looking for.  Q had thought that there would be a locked door in 007’s way, but considering how often 007 ended up inside things locked to keep him out, the speed with which the man moved forward wasn’t surprising.  “All right, Q, tell me how to use this little thing,” came Bond’s voice, and Q immediately perked up. 

“You shouldn’t even need to log in.  Just boot up the computer, and plug that into a USB drive,” Q immediately instructed, fingers poised on his keyboard with eagerness.  “Hopefully after that, it should hack in automatically, barring any design flaws.”

“And if there _are_ design flaws?”

“I hope you’re following instructions while you question my engineering skills,” Q retorted as dryly as a desert, only the thinnest edge giving away his irked professional pride, “I’ve been working on that ‘thing’ for years before I even came to MI6.  It’s one of the things that got me the job, actually.”

“Well, it’s doing something,” was Bond’s next murmur, actually sounding slightly intrigued, which had Q leaning forward unconsciously as eagerness took hold of him. He was virtually hanging on the agent’s every word as Bond explained slowly, “Either this computer wasn’t password protected, or your little gadget gnawed through it so fast I missed that screen for entering it.”

Q resisted the urge to crow.  “So far so good then. It sounds like the initiator-sequence and preliminary hacker-code are working like they should. Hopefully you will have full access to the computer soon, and can start finding and downloading the necessary files soon.”

“Already doing that.”

“It worked that quickly?” Q queried, a little surprised at his device’s swiftness.

“I... may have helped it along a bit,” was the vague answer, and Q could just barely hear Bond clicking on things.  Perhaps Bond liked Q more than he admitted, because he did deign to explain just a hair more - this from a man who kept information to himself like a steel-trap, “There were a few other passwords needed, but guessing the passwords of self-styled supervillains isn’t that hard.”

“ ‘Isn’t that hard’?” Q parroted, carefully deadpan, one eyebrow raised disbelievingly even though he knew that Bond couldn’t see it. 

“I already know that your password is in binary now that your left arm is in a cast, probably for convenience’s sake if you’re typing mostly one-handed, and that before then you had a password most likely related to obscure chess moves or coding commands you’re fond of using.  M’s password is the scientific name to a kind of bird she likes, although I haven’t had time to guess the numbers at the end yet,” Bond informed Q unflinchingly, adding with what Q imagined to be a rolling shrug of one shoulder and a slightly more jovial tone, “I’m trained to watch people.  No one ever truly chooses a password at random, and I can tell you that the head of MI6 and its Quartermaster are infinitely more complicated than some man who likes to sell people for a living.” 

For a moment, Q just sat where he was, very carefully and totally shocked. “Sometimes I underestimate just how unnerving you are,” he finally said, then scribbled on a nearby sticky-note to hand to a passing minion - it was for M, telling her gently that she might want to update all of her passwords.  Or restrict Bond’s access to her laptop, because he’d most likely been nosing into it, despite the fact that he shouldn’t have had the slightest idea of where it was.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” came back the contented rumble, something like a pleased purrbut too rough around the edges to quite fit the bill.  Then 007 abruptly sobered, tone turning cool and professional - the closest he came to edgy, Q had learned.  “As fun as it is to chat with you, Q, we might have to cut it short.  It sounds like I’ve got company coming, the kind of company that makes me dislike the way this room has only one entrance and exit.”

 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I considered titling this chapter after Q's line: 'Liar. No one knows you.' I figured I'd give a funnier title instead, because it still fits ;) We've also now got a bit more of a taste of Bond's genius here...


	6. Boys and Their Toys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mission continues - and Q finds out just how far 007's obedience stretches.
> 
> Later, he finds out just how far the man's jaunty version of professionalism stretches, too - but that turns out to be far more confusing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day late - my apologies! Why is it that I set a posting schedule for myself and then find I can never keep it...?
> 
> Also, was that chapter summary vague enough for you? (~.^) lol

“You’re going to have to make a choice here pretty soon, Quartermaster,” 007 rolled the words off his tongue, but on the camera Q had just commandeered, he could see that the agent was tensing up.  “Do you want your computer data, or do you want me without bullet holes?”

“Both, 007,” Q shot back immediately, infusing command into his tone even though it was always a bit of a toss-up whether Bond would listen or not. Despite how the agent had been working increasingly well with the new Quartermaster of late, Q was always slightly surprised when he gave orders and Bond actually deigned to follow them. “If you can trust me for a few minutes more, I’ll have you out of there - in one piece, with your objective obtained.” Q held his breath a moment, even as his fingers flew across his keyboard, realizing that he’d said the word ‘trust’ without being sure that 007 was actually capable of trust. A large portion of 007’s survival techniques hinged on the fact that he was never caught unawares by betrayal. Bond himself would turn on people while on-mission at the drop of a hat - whatever the situation called for - so he therefore accepted reciprocal treatment as a matter of course.

And 007 on-mission was almost identical to 007 off-mission, to be honest.

Q watched tensely through the grainy resolution of the security camera he’d suborned as Bond paced a few restless steps in front of the computer - back and forth between it and the door where his enemies would soon pour through. “Your little program says five minutes,” 007 informed Q bluntly, “but if I can hear people coming, I don’t have a fraction of that.”

“I’ll give you the time.  Just wait on my word to move,” Q replied in the most certain tone he owned.  He knew what he was doing - he just needed Bond to believe that, too. “I’m already selectively cutting power to different parts of the building, and setting off alarms. Already, anyone after you thinks that you’re in three different places at once.”

Q’s computer screen still showed a restless agent, all controlled energy waiting to detonate into action, but it was rather rewarding to see the blonde head jerk in surprise.  “I might have underestimated you, Quartermaster,” came the charmingly humor-tinged reply, although it switched to a more jaded warning tone as Bond took up a ready pose by the doorway and added, “That being said, if this plan of yours gets me killed, you can bet on my sticking around to haunt you.”

It was impossible not to huff out a small laugh.  “I’d make some witty comment about the impossibility of that, if it weren’t for your alarming propensity for coming back from the dead. Your file is full of so many death certificates that I’d say you were collecting them.”

“Everyone needs a hobby.”  Still laying waste to the security system of the building - weaving a web of chaos to hide the spider at its middle, 007 - Q spared a glance to the screen still showing Bond, gun raised readily so that anyone who did make it through the door would be dropped by a bullet in the brain shortly thereafter.  He’d gone so utterly still that the Quartermaster was tempted to check whether the camera image had frozen, but if he looked very closely, he could see the slight rise and fall of the man’s ribcage stretching the harness for his gun.  It was barely a movement at all.  Reminding himself that Bond could take care of himself more than adequately, Q turned back to his own job, setting off a few more alarms and then hacking the outside sprinkler timers just to have a bit of fun - then he cut power to any location he saw an enemy guard moving through, ensuring that nothing short of night-vision goggles or a good flashlight would do them any good.  “How long, 007?”

“Your program says two minutes, thirty-seven seconds.  How much time do I have?”

At 007’s faintly incredulous, tense tone, Q smirked to himself.  “You’re under your Quartermaster’s protection at the moment, 007. You have as much time as I need you to have.  Now, as soon as that flashdrive finishes downloading everything, I need you to remove it and then follow exactly where I tell you to.  Can you do that, 007?”  The Quartermaster - and nearly everyone within hearing range in Q-branch - waited with held breath, poised to see if the infamously unpredictable 007 would bend to following orders. It was with a sigh of intense relief that the next reply over the comm-link was heard.

“Yes.” The word was unreadable, flat - from his time spent previously with 007, Q knew it instantly for a cagy response, one subject to change.  Still, it was better than a downright ‘no,’ and if Q’s orders proved more dangerous than Bond’s plans, then the man would be more than forgiven for going off-script.

“Good. Tell me when you have the data and are ready to move,” Q said back with his usual aloof, clipped efficiency, eyeing his many, many windows and screens until his brain was a map unto itself - one filled with the locations and projected paths of enemy operatives. A few of those trajectories he changed with the skill and ease of a puppeteer, even going so far as to turn a man around by blowing out a fuse-box in a shower of sparks that blackened half the building.

“Done.” Q had already known that; out of the corner of his eye, he’d watched 007 leave his post by the door to pluck something from the computer. 

Bond looked like a mass of energy, even though his strides were smooth and controlled. Q recognized the combination, having gotten used to seeing it in other 00-agents before now as they buzzed with adrenalin and pure, burning survival instinct.  With 007, the effect was intensified, and Q knew that the man would be moving out of the room whether ordered or not in a second or two. “Head back the way you came, but take the first right instead of the left.  Once at that point, wait for further instructions.  This building has become quite a maze of trouble since you first started shooting people.”  He let light reproach seep into his voice, but mostly kept his attention on commandeered cameras - making sure 007’s path was clear.  “All right, now continue to the second door on the left. You have a window of opportunity of about twenty seconds before you’ll have armed company.”

There was only a light shift in breathing to show that Bond had heard, and was maybe even slightly impressed by the precision of the Quartermaster’s info. And well it should be precise, Q thought to himself: he’d trained to be the best at what he did just like Bond had. It was a 00-agent’s job to spy, kill, and steal for Queen and Country - it was Q’s job to get them back safely. “Stairwell to your right. I don’t have eyes in it, but I haven’t seen anyone go down there since you entered the building.” Bond was already going down the stairs, taking them three if not four at a time without so much as breaking stride.  He exited the stairwell without trouble, heading down a hall that Q once again could see through security cameras.  Distantly, he wondered how long it would be before someone just cut the power to the whole building in hopes of evening out the playing field.  Then again, after seeing how unerringly well Bond navigated and shot people in black-out conditions, Q wasn’t as worried about the possibility as he could be.  Losing his eyes in the building would be annoying, but he’d still have the comm-link to listen to as 007 shot down enemy after enemy before they even saw what was coming.

In a split second, something caught Q’s attention, and a few other techies gave little shouts as they noticed it moments later.  “Stop, Bond!” the Quartermaster immediately barked, tensing in his seat. It was a genuine shock to see the athletic figure pause, nearly freezing in place with one hand just lifting from his two-handed grip on his gun to open a door. Before the man could say anything, the Quartermaster continued in a voice not to be trifled with, “I need you to stay right there, 007.  Wait for my mark before moving.” 

“What is it, Q?” was the impatient question, so quiet that it was a whisper even to Q.

“Armed guards,” Q griped, inordinately displeased that they’d gotten so close to the path he was leading Bond down, “I wasn’t kidding when I said this place had turned into a riled hornets’ nest.  Next time, kindly try to wait until you’re closer to your goal before firing off your weapon and announcing the fact that you’re breaking in.”

“Not funny, Q,” Bond growled back, but he stayed where he was. 

There was tension building everywhere, and besides the occasional clicking of keys or a mouse moving, Q-branch was silent - it probably echoed the tension where 007 was, forced to hold his ground when he had no idea what was on the other side of that door, or even coming his way from his side of the door. Any person who regularly risked his or her life was a control freak, but right now, it was Q who had all the control, and 007 just had to stand there and wait to see how the next seconds of his life would go.

Or if they’d stop altogether.

For a breathless little second, Q wondered if this was what it would feel like to have lightning on a leash: the dread that it would inevitably throw off the collar, the tingling, almost ephemeral haze of restrained violence and power, the proven capability to do a lot of damage with precious little restraint beyond what others were able to exert over it.  Q spared a glance from his other screens to watch 007 for a second, muscles bunched and standing out in shadowed, intimidating relief, completing a picture of grace and power that was poised to unleash five different kinds of chaos at the drop of a pin. 

At the moment, Q wasn’t entirely sure what that pin was.  Himself, perhaps. 

The danger, thankfully, passed without ever realizing that a 00-agent waited just on the other side of the doorway.  “Go. Now.  Quietly, mind you - I know that you prefer fanfare and explosions over silence-”

“Thanks, Q, I think I’ve got the point,” was the unamused retort given under 007’s breath, but Q’s mouth still ticked up at the edges because the agent was moving again, and once more sounding surly but not tense.  “Where are the rest of the guards now?”

“Here and there,” Q dismissed most of them as too far away for Bond to worry about - he had the agent heading for an exit already.  “Two passed your location in the opposite direction, and won’t hear you if you’re stealthy.”

“And who says I can’t be stealthy?”  The humor was back - the dangerous, double-edged humor that always sounded just a little bit like honeyed promises and late nights in bed.  “I snuck up on you once or twice, didn’t I, Quartermaster?”

There were a few twitters of laughter from around the room as other tech-analysts heard the comment and recalled a few occasions where just such a thing had happened. Q considered putting feedback into Bond’s earpiece as a form of punishment, but pushed the idea aside as childish and likely to backfire - an angry 007 was a dangerous 007.   Maybe Q would find the computers of the minions who found this the funniest, and wire them with viruses until they looked appropriately contrite or asked him to fix them. That form of retribution was far more appealing and likely to end without violence.  “Let’s focus on the mission, 007,” Q redirected him dryly, “We can discuss the use and misuse of stealth once you’re back on British soil.”

“You’re no fun, Q,” was the immediate tease, and once again the overly-familiar tone effortlessly made the Quartermaster almost blush.  He shook his head with a little puff of a sigh, resigning himself to working closely with a man who used sex as a weapon even against people he didn’t need to manipulate. 

“I’m afraid ‘fun’ was never properly addressed in my contract - sorry to disappoint,” Q decided to say back in his most idle, unaffected tone, as if he hadn’t even noticed the silky undercurrent in 007’s voice that licked up his spine like a ghost of hot breath.  “Now, take the next left. You’re almost all clear, and I’ve already got one of my underlings poised to call the local authorities. That should prevent any pursuit from getting very far.”

 

~^~

 

Because Bond was Bond, he ended up just escaping under the wire.  In fact, he got tangled up with the local police so that Q lost track of him in the ensuing chaos - Bond’s earpiece even went silent after a disturbing little crunch.  Immediately, Q had his entire branch working on any nearby security or traffic footage to keep track of things, but it was still chaos until 007 turned up an hour later. The man appeared utterly fine and making good time in a stolen car, and even had the audacity to smile up at a traffic camera as he ran a red light.  Q scoffed at the agent’s recklessness and then erased the footage before anyone could see. Bond made it to the airport on time and was heading back to the country without further trouble.

With no more to occupy them at present, Q-branch began to empty.  A few exhausted waves were thrown Q’s way, which he met distractedly, still riding down the high of successfully getting an agent safely through a mission.  Bond wasn’t expected back until late, and since the man had a general habit of causing some domestic trouble (usually in the form of sleeping around, drinking in dangerous excess, or laying waste to any gambling den stupid enough to let him in) before reporting in, Q pushed down his eagerness to look at what his new piece of tech had earned them.  Just the knowledge that his hacking program had worked already had Q ecstatic - that, added to the adrenalin of overseeing Bond’s mission, meant that a night’s rest was more or less an impossibility.  Q settled down at his desk to work on some of the perpetual Q-branch backlog while MI6 slowly fell empty and silent around him, comfortable darkness seeping in as lights were flicked off by departing fingers. 

Q didn’t know how much time he’d whiled away, slowly releasing pent-up tension and energy with swift taps of his fingers and clicks of his mouse, but it was sometime later when two perfunctory knocks on his office door nearly gave him a heart-attack. They were percussive and loud in the easy quiet, and when Q’s head jerked up, he found that the door was actually already open - 007’s deft skills had clearly bypassed the lock and eased the door open without emitting a sound.  “Since when do you knock?” was all Q could think to sputter for a moment, looking at the agent limned in shadows, a big silent cat wandering Q-branch.

“I’ve been lectured about knocking,” the man admitted without any evident regret, although he had the good grace to put on a face that said he was miffed that knocking hadn’t exactly earned him any etiquette points just now, “Extensively. Now, is it too late for a returning field agent to drop off his kit?”  A mischievous smile curled up the edges of Bond’s mouth roguishly as he strolled the rest of the way in, the smile so disarming that Q could see why even the most paranoid targets would sometimes let this man into their house. Bond was a million dangerous surprises wrapped up in an enticing package.  For the moment, though, Q gauged the facade to be only reflexive - sometimes Bond’s masks were designed to hide incoming chaos, and sometimes they were just there, like a bad habit.  Normal people had unconscious habits like worrying their lips or chewing their fingernails. Bond had unconscious habits that most agents employed only while in the field, and rarely half as well as he did.

“You didn’t have to come straight in,” Q protested, eyeing Bond to try and figure out just what he was all about, predicting that it couldn’t be too bad. 007 was too relaxed to be properly threatening at the moment, although there was really no telling. “I’m sure that no one was expecting you to come back to MI6 until at least noon tomorrow.”

“Well, perhaps I had a hunch that you’d like to see your tech as soon as possible,” smirked 007, as he began to unload his things on Q’s desk - starting with his gun and ending with a crushed thing that might have been his earpiece at one time. The man also sported a raw-looking scrape back on his cheekbone all the way to his ear, signs of the blow that had no doubt turned a graceful piece of tech into a mangled lump of wiring.

“007, are you incapable of ending a mission without breaking my things?” Q prodded the earpiece hopelessly.

“Hey, I’m still in one piece, aren’t I?”  Bond flopped down in the vacant chair set up in front of Q’s desk, usually used for berating various minions who couldn’t behave.  It was so out of place and odd to see 007 there instead that Q just raised an eyebrow and blinked, taking the sight in.  It didn’t help that the agent looked gorgeous, sprawling indolently with his long, muscular legs stretched out in front of him and the lack of lighting only adding mystery to his charm.  “You said that if I managed that, you’d give me more toys.”

“Hmm, I did, didn’t I?” Q mused, willing to give Bond some leeway so long as he was behaving - which he miraculously was.  Perhaps, like a pet dog, 007 did better after he’d had some of the energy run out of him, as he had in his last mission.  The agent looked smug and relaxed right now, a lion of a man lazily reaping the rewards of a good kill.  Q shivered a bit when that analogy hit too close to home.  He looked away but still tapped a spare space on his desk with one finger. “However, I haven’t seen the first toy I sent you out with - so unless you broke it since getting on the plane to London, I’d like it back, please.  For the record, I just might blow up another pen on you if you broke that flashdrive.”

The threat, predictably, just made Bond’s smirk widen, but he was in too good a mood to try Q’s patience - with a lax roll of his muscles, 007 curled forward while simultaneously slipping something from his breast pocket. He deposited it right in Q’s hand with a self-satisfied grin on his face.  “There you go, Quartermaster - not a scratch on it, as ordered. I hope it was worth it, considering I was almost shot multiple times.”

Q was already wrapping his fingers around the flashdrive gleefully, nearly forgetting that the 00-agent was still in the room.  “Yes!” he cheered to himself, diving with it towards his laptop, ignoring the raised eyebrows he got from across his desk.  The smaller man was already plugging the device in, quickly activating a program of his own that would prevent the device from doing what it had done earlier - steal all of the information from his hard-drive. Both of the programs were his own personal inventions, intricate collections of code years in the making. Almost immediately, windows opened, portraying data files as the flashdrive spat up its winnings. Q opened a few, growing more elated as he confirmed that they were whole and undamaged.  Murmuring happily at each bit of proof that his hack was flawless, Q distractedly noted 007 getting up and circling around, coming to lean over the back of his chair so he, too, could see what Q was gushing over. Q complied naturally and began pointing out what he was viewing, “The programming is basically designed to go past any firewalls a computer may have – including the basic log in and password that turns the computer on in the first place. So long as there’s power to the computer, it delivers the viruses I’ve loaded it with, like a nest of termites. Then-”  He pointed with a finger at the files that had been collected while 007 had waited tensely for enemy agents to surge in at him. “-The secondary layer of coding activates, going for any data that fits the pre-set search-standards.”

Although Q hadn’t expected Bond to follow or show much interest, the man was leaning over his shoulder now and nodding, blue eyes turned almost colorless in the light of the computer as they surveyed it all with calm intelligence. “And the first layer of coding can become active again as firewalls and passwords present themselves?” he guessed easily enough.

Q flashed him a small, surprised smile.  “Yes, actually. It’s quite simple when you look at it from a distance: either it’s eating through whatever stops it, or it’s grabbing and copying anything within reach. I’ve even modified the storage capacity of the flashdrive.”

“You cheeky bastard, you stole nearly their entire memory storage,” Bond’s smirk widened as he saw just how many files were there. Quite suddenly he was even more interested than before, like a child suddenly finding a game at hand instead of some boring meeting between adults.

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far – but yes,” Q preened, delighted by the open praise and the obvious look of impressed delight in the older man’s blue eyes, “I stole basically everything of value.  None of the data seems corrupted either, although I’ll have to check…” He pursed his lips, leaning forward as he concentrated and set another program running, checking each file far faster than he could do manually.

Shockingly, Bond was interested.  Instead of leaving now that Q was burying himself head-first in a project, the man stayed put, one arm braced against the back of Q’s chair as he continued to watch, occasionally voicing curiosity.  The banter that followed was made up of brief but informative sentences – brief on Bond’s part, informative on Q’s.  It was immediately clear that 007 was in no way a master hacker like his new Quartermaster was, but each question showed an aptitude for computers beyond what Q had come to expect from most MI6 agents.  When something was explained to him, sometimes Bond smirked and made a snarky comment and sometimes he just hummed and nodded, filing the information away like the spy he was.  Some things never changed.  Q was just having fun showing off his pet-project, now a fully-fledged invention of coding, and Bond’s unanticipated knowledge was a bonus.

Q jumped and froze subtly, a reaction he was rather proud of himself for containing so well as 007 startled him right after Q answered one of his questions about exactly what data they’d stolen together.  Fingers still poised on the keys, Q looked down with a quick flick of his eyes to see that, yes, Bond was indeed running his knuckles idly up and down his Quartermaster's side. It was a surprisingly idle gesture, and another cautious glance showed that Bond was still watching the computer screen, apparently oblivious to his own motions. For a man who was always disastrously aware of his own sex appeal, it was both odd and disturbing that Bond did seem to be truly unaware of the light and intimate movements of his hand. Curved knuckles continued their stroking, lightly up and down the side of Q’s ribs while Bond looked on proudly at the data he’d stolen for his Quartermaster. 

There was a split second in which Q had a choice: point out what Bond was doing and deal with it, or just let it go and pretend it wasn’t happening at all. Because 007 seemed to be caught in a rare moment of not doing anything life-endangering or threatening, Q chose the latter, and resolutely turned his attention back to the screen. Bond kept up the petting motion of his fingers without taking note. “Well, clearly MI6 was correct in assuming human trafficking – these files can’t be anything but business transactions,” Q once again hovered a fingertip over the screen as he opened a file. Unimpressed, the Quartermaster snorted, “And not particularly hidden ones at that. Honestly, criminals nowadays… Someone else would have caught him before long if we hadn’t.”

“Careful not to get too prideful there, Quartermaster,” Bond chided humorously, crooked smile in place as he followed along, “The ease of our job is largely dependent on the idiocy of those criminals.”

“Not with this it doesn’t,” Q tapped the flashdrive proudly, “I’m serious, Bond – this will change missions and make them safer.  Everything is computerized nowadays, and if all an agent like yourself has to do is get to a computer and jam this in, I imagine fewer will end up dead.”

“There’s still a risk,” Bond reminded, but not in a tone that seemed particularly affected. “Someone’s always going to have a hand on the trigger, trying to shoot whoever is running around with one of your little inventions.” He tipped his head towards the piece of tech while also startling Q with a tap of two fingers to his ribs. The smaller man had to fight to keep his breathing even while he once again checked to see if Bond was trying to start something, counting it as a minor miracle that his own twitching hadn’t triggered the agent’s attention yet.  Once again, though, 007 either wasn’t over-analyzing his own actions or wasn’t giving them any thought, period.  “And those things don’t walk themselves into enemy compounds, do they?”

“Touché, 007,” Q admitted with a little sigh.  He once again pushed down the feeling of being touched, the warmth of Bond’s fingers having already sunk through his layers of clothing until it felt like the beginnings of a brand against his skin.  James Bond ran hot, it seemed, which didn’t surprise Q in the slightest. What surprised him was that this hadn’t escalated into something beyond a professional (if slightly companionable and friendly) talk between coworkers.  “Still, you must admit, this will save both your division and mine a lot of trouble when it comes to appropriating illicit files. Goodness knows I’ve had more than enough of walking 009 through working a computer.”

“009 is still impressed by the invention of the toaster,” Q felt Bond’s smile through his words, closer to his ear so that the joke also came across like a warm little secret – once again toeing at the line between appropriate and not. But then he pulled back, not making an issue of it.  “Well, Quartermaster, as fun as it’s been, I think there’s a bottle of Scotch calling my name – and then I imagine that we both need rest, but I’m willing to bet money that you’re not getting any.”

Q took a flustered second to realize that none of that was an innuendo. He stuttered a bit as he turned to follow 007’s retreat back around to the front of the desk, “Uh… er… yes. Well. No, you might be correct about that. I need to get this data filed away now that we have it.”

“You need to play with your new toy a bit and assure yourself that I really didn’t break it, you mean.” 007 stopped next to the first chair he’d occupied with a cheeky grin fixed on his face.

“I said nothing of the sort,” Q retorted loftily, and kept his eyes on his screen as he listened to Bond’s low, rough chuckle and quietly noted the man exiting the room to whatever it was 007 got up to when no one was watching.

 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, so...a bit of physical interest is entering the picture. Or is it? Sadly, James isn't exactly the guy for cut-and-dried boundaries when it comes to relationships and love-interests... We'll just have to see how Q copes! Hopefully see you guys next week!


	7. Sphynxlike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q pitches his new device to M, which amuses 007 greatly. MI5 gets involved and the fun wears off, though.
> 
> Or the chapter in which Q gets his cast of, plays hide-and-seek with MI5 a bit, and ultimately gets found by 007 instead!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently I'm bad at keeping deadlines XD As always, sorry for the lateness - school is definitely underway where I am! 
> 
> Also, a note while reading: I know _nothing_ about politics, British government, fancy technology, or cars. So if you find mistakes while reading regarding those topics, remind yourself that this is fan _fiction_ , and try not to take the errors to heart!

By the next day at noon, Q had indeed not slept, but Bond looked as competent and dashing as always. At the moment, though, as both men gave their reports directly in M’s office, the 00-agent was watching with something like delighted fascination as Q gesticulated wildly while describing the same flashdrive he’d shown Bond the night before.  Even though Q still had one arm in a cast, he was incredibly animated.

“It works. Entirely,” Q said, words mostly professional but notably breathy with excitement around the edges. “Even if 007’s mission results didn’t speak volumes, I’ve run just about every test known to man to see if there’s any hidden glitch.” The Quartermaster straightened slightly, expression arch as he defended, “My coding is flawless.”

“Don’t kill us with your modesty, Quartermaster,” Bond finally couldn’t hold back his snort of laughter, and M’s eyes snapped to him warningly. The 00-agent’s grin was wide an incorrigible, however, but what kept it from being insulting was that he looked like he greatly enjoyed watching Q spin.

“Go on, Quartermaster,” M gave up on her 00-agent, turning her attention back to her slightly-frowning head of Q-branch.

“Oh? Oh, yes,” Q redirected his attention back to the topic at hand as well, “I’m proud to say that this is some of my best work.  You won’t find anything else as good on the market – legal or otherwise.”  The tiny quirk of Q’s lips might have been a smile, or it might have not been. Behind his glasses, his eyes remained sphinxlike, unreadable. “I also have the only program able to shut it down, at the moment.”

One of M’s eyebrows twitched at the last utterance, and by now she definitely looked interested, although she wasn’t on her feet and jumping around animatedly like Q. Usually MI6’s new Quartermaster was also more reserved, but this was a project that he’d been working on for nearly his entire life – he wasn’t joking when he had said the coding inside that little flashdrive knew no peer. “Bond, you used it in the field. What do you have to say about this?”

Q had to hold his breath, knowing that Bond could either support him or sink him at this point – and either was a possibility, because 007 was as amoral as a shark. Despite his apparent curiosity and interest the night before, Bond could easily rip a hole in Q’s triumph with little to no compunction.  Right now, 007 was doing nothing but slouching in his chair and meeting M’s gaze with confident calmness, the tip of one polished shoe tipping back and forth like the twitching tip of a cat’s tail.  Then he started speaking, and his words rolled out with easy competence, “The only trouble on the whole mission was with people shooting at me – Q’s piece of tech was the smoothest part of the operation. Honestly?” Bond cocked an eyebrow, but all Q could think was how surprised he was that ‘honestly’ was in 007’s vocabulary. Bond went on with an expansive shrug of broad shoulders, “Honestly, that was the easiest steal I can remember. All I did was stick it into the computer and wait.”

Technically, Q knew that this was false: Bond had helped the program along by finding a few passwords for himself. However, from his own testing of the device and programming, Q knew that that had shaved only minutes off their time at best. Perhaps 007 knew it, too, because he closed his mouth again and ungrudgingly let Q’s flashdrive take all the glory. It was a relief to hear Bond speak so highly of his work, and Q found a flush of gratitude unspooling through his system.  For a man who could kill teammates at the drop of a hat if the mission called for it, Bond could also be… oddly supportive, apparently.  There were so many facets to the man that Q understood why M had despaired of figuring him out ages ago.

“That’s all I need to hear then,” M dipped her head in a small but quick nod. Her eyes snapped back to Q, and her expression held a new light that was subtly warmed by interest. “Do you need to run more tests? If not, I want to know how long it will take to make more – what do you call this?”

“The Vasatre-drive,” Q responded, flushing a bit in embarrassment as he admitted the name of his pride and joy.  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the slight twitch of Bond’s head as if something had pricked at the man’s ear.  It could just have been the scrape on the side of his face throbbing, however. Bond had probably dodged Medical and treated the wound on his own (or not at all).

“Hm,” M said, making no comment on the unfamiliar name, “You have my approval to move all necessary resources – within reason – to make more.”

“I’d like to run a few more tests – use the Vas-drive on a few more missions,” Q gently requested, shortening the name without a hitch while also belatedly getting his professional excitement under control. Bond was watching him with such interest that Q was afraid he’d start blushing soon, all because the Quartermaster was acting like a sugar-loaded child on his birthday. Apparently the man who could be bored in the midst of enemy territory could be intrigued by excited Quartermasters. “But, of course, I’ll copy it first. It was a risk to send this one out in the first place without a back-up.”  Q had copies of the individual programs and viruses he’d encoded into the flashdrive, but paranoia had kept Q from compiling that data in more than one actual device. This wasn’t the kind of tech he wanted in the wrong hands.

After working out a few more details and asking a few more questions about the general abilities of what Q had created, M dismissed the Quartermaster. Bond was left behind – possibly to give his own report of the more physical aspects of the mission. If Q stuck around, he’d probably hear M’s voice grow progressively louder and more strident as 007 annoyed her – imagine Q’s surprise when he’d learned that nearly every department had a running bet regarding how many times Bond could walk into M’s office and then escape it without her putting his skin up on the wall.

As much as Q wanted to get right down to work, he hadn’t eaten since… probably yesterday. He made a point of not distracting himself with food when he was elbows-deep in 00-missions, but even before remotely assisting 007, Q couldn’t recall if he’d nibbled on a sandwich or just had some tea for lunch before that. Now, having pulled an all-nighter with his brain fully engaged with coding and computer tests, Q was forced to admit that he was on the verge of collapse. The adrenaline-high he’d been riding on in M’s office was also wearing off and his arm ached, so Q rather shakily deviated towards the break-room instead of heading straight for Q-branch.

Q couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in the break-room, but it seemed horrifically under-stocked. After finding no food in the refrigerator that didn’t have either names or threats against stealing (or expiration dates that had come and gone before Q had even entered MI6), Q settled for making himself tea from a forgotten box shoved to the back of the cupboards. Huddled around his cup and breathing in the aroma of sub-par Earl Grey, Q was startled by a soft touch to the small of his back.  “Surviving on tea again, Quartermaster?” came the low comment wrapped in laughter as 007 snuck into the otherwise-empty break-room.

Q had jumped, but recovered quickly with a resigned roll of his eyes. He took a fastidious mouthful of tea before reaching – again – for the sugar with his healing arm, noting 007’s eyes on him, cataloguing his every action as if for later use. Q answered dryly while trying to drown the taste of the tea in pure saccharine, “When the only other option is lime-flavored yogurt that expired over a year ago, you consider yourself grateful.”

Taking that in with an accepting blink of blue eyes, Bond unexpectedly turned, opening the fridge for himself. Q could have told him that his own photographic memory hadn’t missed anything, and certainly nothing in there had been labeled ‘James,’ but in the end the Quartermaster sipped his tea and let the 00-agent do as he wished.

James stood back up a second later, a sandwich of some sort in his hand that Q didn’t have to look at closely to recall. “I believe, 007, that that sandwich is the property of one ‘Brian Holland’,” Q informed the other man with the beginnings of sternness.

“Yes, but I believe it’s the same Brian Holland whose vacation started today,” 007 argued back calmly. Still holding the sandwich in one hand, Bond slipped his other hand around Q’s mug and deftly appropriated it from his grip before the Quartermaster could mount a defense.  Before Q really started frowning at him, 007 replaced the drink with the sandwich. Bond smiled his most charming smile, eyes turning extra blue with mischief.  “I don’t think he’ll miss it.”

Q looked between the sandwich and the blond 00-agent.  “This is stealing,” he felt the need to remind, in case Bond had forgotten the definition. Which he very possibly had.

“Brian doesn’t get back for two weeks – do you really think he’ll even want his sandwich then?” Bond argued back, raising an eyebrow.

Instead of addressing that very legitimate point, Q shrewdly queried back without missing a beat, “How do you know the specifics about Brian Holland’s vacation?”

Q’s reward for his question was a sharp quirk of a smile, that same intrigued light in Bond’s eyes that he got every time Q surprised or impressed him. Easing his weight onto one leg and leaning a hip against the counter, 007 crossed his arms easily and answered glibly, “Because I’m a 00-agent. A bloody good one.”

“Too good, some days,” Q muttered as he accepted that answer as more than valid and unwrapped the sandwich to give it an experimental bite.  His eyes stayed carefully on 007, although he knew it made little difference: the man was still well within his personal space, little more than a foot away – more than close enough for a man like Bond to hurt a person if the fancy took him. At the moment, though, the agent seemed content to just watch Q and absentmindedly turn the Quartermaster’s forgotten mug of tea beneath his strong fingers.  Eventually, Q gave in to the awkwardness of it all and just ate the sandwich, noticing increasingly with every mouthful just how much his body had been craving solid matter.  The cast on one arm got in the way a bit, but his fingers still worked just fine, and he was due to have the bloody thing removed soon anyhow. Just that thought warmed him wonderfully, and Q even closed his eyes a minute, daydreaming of days when he could code two-handed again without being hindered.

“What kind of pompous arse names his pet project after a Latin word that means ‘to lay waste’?” Bond demanded to know out of the blue, breaking into Q’s thoughts.

Q nearly choked on a mouthful of ham and bread. In fact, he started coughing so hard that he feared for a moment that he wouldn’t get it out, but he started breathing again even as 007 eased forward and gripped his elbows lightly – at first Q thought it was in case his Quartermaster collapsed, but then he saw how broadly the agent was smirking, and tossed out that charitable idea. Bond was actually chuckling by the time Q regained his breath, and warm thumbs rubbed at the sides of Q’s biceps.  “Was it something I said, Quartermaster?” he asked as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, “You suddenly seem a bit unsteady on your feet.”

“How do you get away with saying things like that?!” Q exclaimed, “And how did you know that?” He shot a glare Bond’s way, an amazingly bold and accusing look considering a man who killed for a living still had hold of his arms in a gently iron grip – Q had watched that grip tighten and twist on missions, snapping bones.  Q’s bones were only just healing, so the thought of undoing the doctor’s good work did not appeal… but he countered the agent anyway, “You don’t speak Latin.”

“How do you know I don’t speak Latin?”

“Because I’ve read your files.”

“My files also say that my I.Q. score is 100,” Bond stepped back and crossed his arms again to challenge, the smile shifting to something more cunning than playful on his face. Actually, no – on second thought, it was still playful. The game had just changed.

Like a little spark lighting in his brain, Q remembered talking with M, and the possibility that Bond had essentially lied on his I.Q. tests.  Eyeing Bond speculatively while putting down the last bit of sandwich (barely more than a mouthful, and no longer appetizing after inhaling some), Q noted cautiously, “100 exactly, as I recall.”

Bond nodded in a slightly patronizing fashion, a movement of his head and eyes that encouraged Q to think further. ‘ _Come on, Q,_ ’ it seemed to say, with the tantalizing lure of secrets waved in front of him. As it was, Q didn’t take the bait. Instead, the Quartermaster shook his head and pushed his glasses further up his nose, snatching back his cup of tea before stating, “I still don’t think you speak Latin.”

“Are you saying I’m wrong?” Bond hedged, snugging his arms tighter and curling his body closer. Head cocked, he pressed, “About the definition?”

“I’m saying that if you can score 105 on one I.Q. test, then 104 on the next, and then 103, 102, 101, and finally 100 consecutively, then you’re more than capable of using _Google_ ,” Q snipped back with desert-like dryness, making a face because now he was drinking cooled tea. The sugar was congealed at the bottom. Bond was also in the way of the teapot.

And still having fun with Q, apparently.

“If I’m as smart as you think I am – and I’m not admitting that,” Bond held up a belaying finger, “then why would I need to ask a computer for help?”

“Fine,” Q sighed, rolling his eyes to show exasperated patience before putting down his tea again.  He focused on Bond the kind of unflappable look that was necessary for being Quartermaster to a bunch of unruly agents and said, “Look me in the eye and tell me you speak Latin.”

“I speak Latin,” Bond said, following instructions perfectly, his blue eyes like crystals as they returned Q’s frank, assessing look.  There was not a flicker of untruth in his tone or expression.

After waiting about three seconds after the sincere-sounding declaration, Q merely picked up his mug, walked around Bond, and reached for the waiting kettle behind him. “Nope.  You’re lying. The pathetic thing is that your lies sound more believable than your truths, so if you’d managed to sound a bit more… _un_ trustworthy… I might have given you the benefit of the doubt,” Q explained frankly while he poured himself hot water again. Because he was used to ignoring 007’s intimidating presence by now, he didn’t bat an eye at the fact that he was now nearly brushing shoulders with the man as he turned to follow Q’s progress.

Bond observed in an indecipherable tone after a long pause, “Not a lot of people can tell when I’m lying, you realize.”

“I know.” Q shrugged, realizing with resignation that he'd have to once again get the right concentration of sugar. He'd probably end up using a good portion of MI6's supply.  “And to be fair, I honestly can’t tell most of the time either. But sometimes you just look too good to be true, and that’s about the only ‘tell’ I can give you to think about.” Now Q looked up from where he was spooning sugar into his steaming mug, blinking and raising eyebrows beneath the messy fall of his hair, “So you really don’t know Latin?”

“No more than anyone would expect – but I thought that word sounded Latin or Greek or something,” was the answer this time, and there was only the barest perceptible change in 007’s tone. In fact, if Q examined it too closely, he found himself mixing up the two: lie and truth, truth and lie. It was like watching for a star in the night sky that was so faint that one only saw it askance, but lost it when looking directly at the pinpoint of light.  Still, trusting on flimsy instincts alone, the smaller man decided that he’d finally weaseled the truth out of the unpredictable agent this time. As Q finally declared his drink passable and Bond settled back to engage his Quartermaster in idle conversation, Q mulled over the intense feeling of triumph he’d gotten from that little truth.

 

~^~

 

The next few days were, to say the least, hectic.  Both the tech and the code involved to make a Vas-drive (which Q usually labeled only as that, and explained to mean ‘Viral Attack System’ if anyone asked) were delicate and complicated, requiring extensive work that only Q was equipped to do. Fortunately, the ongoing missions were once again in a lull period, with only the occasional call from a 00-agent who needed some security footage wiped.  It was all background noise to Q as he focused on getting his present task done.

Predictably, this couldn’t stay secret indefinitely: something this innovative and inevitably dangerous soon had MI5 sending in people.  They were polite and behaved, no doubt aware that M had brought them in only out of courtesy and would happily throw them out again at the slightest provocation. However, the MI5 representatives were also distracting with their questions, to the point where Q actually found himself wishing that he were dealing with 007 instead – at least the man had an aptitude for quiet, even if it always felt a bit as if he were dissecting a target with his eyes whenever he wasn’t talking.  Shuffling that thought aside and reminding himself that MI5 employees (no matter how stupid their questions) were better than homicidal agents, Q put up with the inquiries and people watching over his shoulder. He realized that something like this would be considered a threat to the country if it weren’t being birthed within MI6 itself, so some curiosity was to be expected, if not outright caution and fear.

Q was too elated to question why his cast was removed two days before scheduled, but if he hadn’t been so buried in his work, he might have realized that it was either give the Quartermaster back full use of both his arms or face the possibility of him going insane and sawing it off himself – he had the tech to do it. The utter joy of having both of his limbs back in working order again was tempered by irritation in a more domestic facet of his life, however, as Marcus grew increasingly annoyed with Q’s odd (and long) hours. Q saw the end coming long before it actually happened, as his boyfriend’s complaints mounted each time he actually managed to catch ‘Ethan’ on the phone.  It was honestly a bit of a relief when Marcus broke it off, although Q had to admit he’d miss the convenient company.  Q wasn’t a ‘relationship person,’ but he got no joy out of being a monk, either.

That set the tone for the day as it continued to go downhill.  M had told a select number of MI5 people about Q’s project out of professional courtesy – at times, the woman could be neighborly. The problem came when ‘a select number’ became quite a few more because MI5 couldn’t shut up its bloody employees. Before long, Q felt like some sort of irritated cross between a trick-pony at a circus and someone under intense interrogation.  Everyone seemed worried about what this new Vas-drive would do, and while Q had to admit that their fear was well-grounded (he had essentially created something that no firewall or password could keep out), he wished people would put a bit more faith in him.  After all, Q was as loyal to Queen and Country as anyone around, and he liked to think that thoughts of world-domination were fun, but ultimately too stressful to contemplate for long. 

The real trouble came when he had been asked for at least the seventh time just how strong a computer’s security would have to be to keep Q’s program out. The truth was that Q didn’t know of anything (save his own programmed countermeasures) that could do that, but either no one believed him or no one wanted to hear that.  So, instead, the Quartermaster had snapped without looking up from what he was doing, “Why don’t you go and grab one of your laptops and bring it? I’m sure that’s top-notch security, and I need to run more tests anyway.”

After that, Q was treated like a piranha that had miraculously learned to hunt people on land. And work a computer.

Q finally called it quits when he caught wind of a formal meeting being set up, where he would no doubt be grilled about every minute detail of his project. M was already doing her best to run interference for him, but short of flambéing a few people (which she looked just about ready to do, actually), Q wasn’t going to get any peace any time soon.  In fact, he was pretty sure that a few of the people he’d been talking to wanted to lock him away right about now, and/or burn all of his files.

Fed up and honestly at his wits’ end, the Quartermaster locked down what he was working on with a few swift clicks and then made himself scarce.  What he was doing probably counted as ‘running and hiding’ but he preferred to think of it as a timely and sensible retreat. How long this retreat lasted depended on how long it took before M cleared MI6 of any paranoid imbeciles with questions on the tips of their wretched tongues.

If anyone later asked, the Quartermaster did _not_ go AWOL – he’d learned from watching numerous political situations go downhill on missions that some of the little niceties needed to be observed, such as remaining nearby in case something in Q-branch blew up. So he went to the garage complex instead, the less public section of Q-branch usually dedicated to larger projects. Usually, Q was found around computers, because those were the things that truly spoke to him, but he was decently handy around cars and other vehicles.  So, as people no doubt tried to hunt him down for that meeting, he put his pager aside where he couldn’t hear it buzzing, turned off the tracking system in it that he himself had designed, and spent the next half hour under and inside an Aston Martin.

The car hadn’t been running quite right, but that probably had to do with the plethora of alterations and modifications Q had made to it.  The Vas-drive was his baby, but the Aston Martin was an equally old pet-project that brought a level of comfort to it as Q tinkered and tried out new things. While he’d scrupulously maintained the vehicle’s outward appearance, it was really something of a Frankenstein’s-monster of a car beneath it all.  If it ever actually left the garage, Q would be shocked, but it was fun to test out new things – hidden weaponry, a cash of smoke bombs, caltrops that could be dropped out the back of the vehicle with [theoretically] the drop of a button. Maybe it was best that this wasn’t the project he was known for, because then he truly would seem like a mad scientist.

Growing more relaxed with every minute that he spent beneath the hood and was not found by anyone, Q eventually got in and slipped in behind the wheel, turning it on and holding his breath…  “Yes!” he breathed when the engine purred to life, something it had been stubborn about doing earlier. Q relaxed back with a look of proud contentment as he listened to the motor’s sounds.

Without any warning whatsoever, a hand snaked around from behind the seat to clamp over Q’s mouth, sealing in any sounds of fright before they were even invented. With what little training Q had, he knew he had to act, but as soon as he tried to swing a hand back, his attacker’s free hand caught his wrist in a vice-like grip.  Q froze, finally just plain startled by how quick his attacker was. He panted through his nose, waiting for what would happen next and trying to think how someone could have gotten into the heart of MI6. 

Oddly enough, thought, nothing happened.  Q’s brows beetled and the fingers of his trapped hand twitched questioningly, and a moment later, the hand on his mouth slipped slowly away.  The backs of the calloused fingers ghosted against the edge of his jaw before finding a new home at his throat, not gripping but instead playing gently with the smooth column of skin.  Q thought he caught a gleam of amused blue in his rearview mirror.

“Bond,” Q said, making his voice as steady as he could while he was still coming down from an incredible adrenaline high, “get out of my car.”

“Actually, I’d say that this is _MI6’s_ car.” Bond shifted slightly, and Q could see him clearly now in the rear-view mirror, cocky half-smile in place as his eyes moved admiringly around the interior of the vehicle.   “Besides, I thought that Marcus was giving you rides to and from places.”

“Marcus was getting a bit nosy and clingy.  Sort of like you.  I hope you’re aware that you’re practically a stalker by this point,” Q pointed out uncharitably but without any particular hope of affecting Bond’s personality.

His lack of hope was well-placed, as 007 met his eyes blandly and retorted, “I’m practically a serial killer, too, but I get paid for that.”  The fingers of the hand still curled idly against Q’s skin pressed closer pointedly, just enough to dimple the skin at the side of Q’s neck and make him shy away. Bond just watched, untroubled by his own disturbing effect on people.

Q huffed a sigh and pushed down on his irritation, having already seen a hint of what prodding Bond would do: Q wasn’t sure whether the agent would actually turn violent towards him, but he knew the man had reflexes, and most snakes bit if you kicked at them enough. The secret to dealing with 007, Q had found, was keeping calm.  Quite honestly, nothing else was effective.  “So what brings you down here, 007?  Surely not to make a point of my personal life again.”

As soon as Q’s tone eased, so did Bond, his body shifting back to sit comfortably while he admitted to his instructions, “M sent me to fetch you.  Something about a meeting.”

Q groaned. “Oh, dear god, I _have_ moved up in the predatory food-chain, haven’t I?” He dropped his forehead onto the steering wheel with perhaps more drama than necessary, “If M is contracting 00-agents to come locate me, I must be up at ‘terrorist’ level.”

“Actually, M just figured I’d know where you were,” Bond started to chuckle, predictably amused by Q’s histrionics and all hints of impending violence replaced instead by keen amusement, “She seems to have realized that I keep tabs on you.”

Curiosity managed to stir beneath his dread and resignation, and Q lifted his head to twist around in his seat. He met Bond’s eyes – which had narrowed fractionally in caution when he found the Quartermaster’s full attention on him – as he asked candidly, “Do you keep tabs on all new MI6 employees?”

“I keep tabs on anyone who’s interesting. Don’t worry, Quartermaster, I’m sure your shiny newness will wear off sooner or later.” With that, Bond got out of the vehicle before Q could question him more – although Q watched him, perplexedly wondering why his ‘shiny newness’ hadn’t worn off already.  By this point, he figured that 007 should have been terribly bored with him.  Q was kept from pondering that further as the agent circled to the driver’s side door to open it, all with perfectly crafted charm that Q had seen countless times on missions. Just as an exercise, Q tried to see if he could see through it, but Bond wore his masks as more than skins: they sank into him, a perfect ink that dyed him to the core, and Q had no doubt that even 007’s greatest enemies would not be able to pry beneath this armor. It made 007 the best agent in MI6’s history, and also a very puzzling man.

“Are you going to frown at me all day or come along?” Bond asked, clearly prepared to fight dirty to get the Quartermaster moving.

Q swung out of the car, making no move to avoid the hand that helped him out because dodging Bond seemed like more effort than it was worth.  He pointedly ignored the little smirk he got as 007 squeezed his hand and then released, swinging around beside him.  “Bloody hell, I hate meetings,” Q breathed, but squared his shoulders and strode swiftly out, unable to hear 007 following him but knowing that the dangerous man was behind him nonetheless.

 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this was a bit of a filler chapter - I needed to set things up a bit before slamming into the action I have planned! Had to get Q's cast off, get Mark out of the way, give some people a reason to put a target on Q's back and want to hunt him down... Oh, did I say that out-loud? (~.^) See you in a week, hopefully! With more stalker-ish 007...


	8. Trouble-seeker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q has his meeting - mostly survives it. 
> 
> Bond starts to like Q's flat - and Q mostly survives that, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, a chapter actually updated on time!!! :D It's even longer than my usual 6-pages-worth on a Word document - I'm counting this as a win here.

The meeting went just about as badly as Q had feared it would - clearly, being made to wait on MI6’s new, young Quartermaster hadn’t improved anyone’s mood, and having said Quartermaster escorted in by a 00-agent did quite a lot to make them more suspicious.  For a split second, Q had been tempted to request that 007 remain, if only because he had a penchant for making the people around him extremely nervous.  This was Q’s firing squad to face, however, not Bond’s - and besides that, it was possible that the man would enjoy it too much, and there were already enough egos in the room without adding a largely-amoral 00-agent to the mix. 

For the next three hours, MI6’s Quartermaster was grilled on everything from his tech to his past, which, coincidentally, coincided with his tech.  When he admitted that he’d started working on this programmed flashdrive before his admittance into MI6, shit really hit the fan, and only M’s presence probably kept him from being arrested on the spot for terrorism. With patience that had been thin to start with (but was necessary when working with people this high-ranking), Q explained that his intentions had never been treasonous, and M was quick to corroborate his story, saying that MI6 had been aware of his activities – grateful for them, in fact, as they’d brought Q to MI6’s attention and thus gained them a very valuable new Quartermaster. The fact that Q had brought in such a sensitive and potentially useful project was a definite bonus.

The problem was, Q could see that being useful and being dangerous were both scales that rose in tandem – the more of one he became, clearly the more he became the other as well.

After working with agents for this long (and 007 in particular), Q had a tolerance for annoyances that was probably matched by very few people in the world, but he was still on the verge of snapping when M finally drew the meeting to a forceful close, making it clear that no one was going to threaten the removal of her Quartermaster so long as she ran MI6.  No one argued. Physically, M was not an imposing woman, but she was a dragon inside and no one was eager to get burned.

As the room emptied and Q sagged back in his chair, feeling as if he’d just been let down off the rack, M walked over and said with something approaching pity in her voice, “Go home, Quartermaster.  Goodness knows today’s been bloody long enough, and I don’t want to lose my Quartermaster to exhaustion when we’ve got such a delicate project underway.”

“So you’re not worried about me taking over the world with it?” Q joked in a slightly morbid tone, unable to resist the exhausted attempt at humor as he looked up at his boss.

M snorted. “No more so than I’m worried about Bond spontaneously deciding to burn down Moscow.  He might be dangerous, but there are limits to what he’ll do, and you’re better behaved than him.”

Now it was Q’s turn to make a dryly amused sound, as he rubbed at his temples and the headache that had been hunched there for at least the last hour, “I’m not sure how I feel about being compared to the most destructive agent in MI6’s history, but it’s good to know that I’m not expected to cause nationwide chaos.” He went to rubbing at his eyes, pushing his glasses up and beginning to realize how drained he felt. “I think I just might do as you suggest and go home.”

“Suggest?” Without looking, he knew that one eyebrow had been lifted at him fractionally.  “Quartermaster, that was an order.  Go home. Q-branch can run without you until tomorrow.”

 

~^~

 

Q felt like a zombie by the time he got back to his flat, barely remembering most of the trip on the tube and then the taxi.  Not having Marcus texting constantly was rather nice, and Q took comfort in the empty quiet of his house as he shuffled out of his shoes and dumped his keys on the table before heading to the shower.  Today had been full of stress and now he wanted nothing more than to scrub it off himself like a second, ratty skin.  Shucking his clothing and setting the shower nearly to scalding – one of his favorite parts about his flat was the exquisite water pressure, and the way it heated almost instantly to delicious warmth – the slender young man stepped under the spray and let it beat at him.  It flattened his hair to his head and he had to push it back out of his face while water ran off his lashes, nose, and chin.

The whole day hadn’t been bad, he had to admit upon reflection.  While the constant interrogation had ruined the fun of working on the Vas-drive, his momentary escape down to the garage and the Aston Martin had been lovely. Even Bond’s ambush in the car hadn’t put a damper on the memory, surprisingly, and Q went over the memory slowly as he washed up. Q wasn’t an agent, but being the main handler of agents meant that he was very familiar with many of their quirks and tactics, and therefore knew a little bit about learning from observation. Thankfully, his own observation skills were rarely needed in life-or-death situations – rather, he went over things he’d noticed at his leisure, seeing if he’d learned anything useful. Reflecting on Bond’s dangerous playfulness, Q deduced that he’d become the top name on Bond’s list of ‘favorite things to play with,’ and he couldn’t help but wonder how others had survived that position before him.  The man would be irresistible if he weren’t so terrifying half the time.

Q finished rinsing off and regretfully turned off the water, knowing that he’d be a prune before long if he didn’t. The steam kept the room warm enough that it wasn’t too tortuous to step out of the shower and into a towel, and it was while scrubbing the material over his wet head that he realized he could smell something cooking.

Without even having to think, Q groaned as realization hit him, and he swiftly dried off enough to drag his old clothing back on again.  “Why me…?” he muttered to himself in sincere bemusement as he swiftly quit the bathroom, stalking the short distance to the kitchen – where one of the lights was on and the smell of soup was exiting. “Bond, what the hell are you doing in my house again!” he yelled before he’d even rounded the corner to see into his kitchen.

“You have virtually nothing edible in your kitchen.  How do you _live_?” 007 said back in an utterly untroubled tone, leaning into Q’s mostly-barren fridge so that he was lit from the front by the chill light and from behind with the yellowish stove-light. The overhead light was still off, because of course Bond cared for shadowy places.

“Bond,” Q repeated his name shortly, stopping at the edge of the kitchen to fold his arms and tap a foot impatiently.

The agent continued to ignore the original question, but straightened to lean over the open fridge-door and ask with a curious tilt of his head, “How did you know it was me and not Marcus?”

“Marcus doesn’t have a key and doesn’t know how to pick locks,” Q replied shortly, then returned doggedly to what he wanted to know, “What are you doing here?”

“Cooking. Or trying to, considering you have a total of five ingredients in your entire flat.”

“Entire…?” Q choked a bit, doubting that it was just a turn of phrase. Blinking wide eyes behind his glasses, Q tried to come to grips with the fact that he had a nosy 00-agent not only breaking into his flat for the second time, but rummaging through it in search of food items to cook with. “You’re a bloody lunatic.”

A quirk of a smile was just barely visible at the corner of Bond’s mouth, his usually cold eyes flashing with amusement as he draped his arms over the still-open fridge door and regarded Q steadily. “Well spotted. Care to add ‘good cook’ to that?”

“Why are you in my kitchen?”

“Going to kick me out, Q?” came the challenging reply, with just enough heat to make it inviting and just enough edge to tell Q that he didn’t have a snowball’s chance of actually doing it. He guessed that 007 had actually only meant to show the former quality in his tone, but Q had come to know him well enough to pick up on the latter as well.

Deciding to heed the warning stretched out before him like a waiting trap, Q held his tongue and instead walked slowly into the room to take a seat at his table, reaching out a hand to touch a pinky finger to the random tech strewn across it, because the sensation grounded him.  This seemed quite a lot like an impossible dream, coming out of a shower to find a 00-agent cooking in his flat.  Apparently content with Q’s silence, Bond had moved back to the stove, leaving the fridge open because clearly he cared to other people’s things about as much as he cared for other people in general.  With a sigh, Q got up and pushed it closed, first taking a quick catalogue of its interior to get an idea of what Bond had taken.  “What are you making?” he was finally too curious to hold back the question, and straightened slowly to try and see the stove past Bond’s broad back.

A blue eye was canted back his way, an icy glint in the insufficient lighting. “Afraid I’ll poison you or something, Quartermaster?”

“More afraid that you’re cooking with something that’s expired. I rarely eat anything but take-out, and I can’t vouch for the safety of anything.” He thought fleetingly of the fridge in the break-room, and realized that his was actually worse. Taking in a breath, he caught a whiff of something herbal. “I have basil?” he more exclaimed than asked, truly baffled.

Bond’s shoulders began moving before Q heard the chuckles emanating from the man, and no answer besides laughter was forthcoming.  Apparently, 007 had not only found basil in Q’s house somewhere but had familiarized himself enough to move easily about the kitchen, eventually opening the cupboard for plateware.  “Bowl, Quartermaster?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder with a charming smile as perfectly in place as if it had been painted there.

“Or what, I eat out of my hands?” Q couldn’t help but gripe, although he’d mostly given up figuring out this entire situation.  Sighing again and tipping his head back for a resigned moment, he murmured with ill grace, “Yes, a bowl please.  If you’re using my kitchen I figure I’m entitled to some of the results, even if I still have no bloody idea how you’re even in here.”

“You should lock your door better,” was the easy response, as Bond placed two bowls and spoons on the table. Q ignored the unnecessary brush against his shoulder, cataloguing it along with Bond’s other odd and ingrained actions.

“I’m going to have to tell M to lecture you on personal space and respecting the privacy of people’s homes, aren’t I?” Q finally picked an answer to that.

Bond was still circling the kitchen as he moved about, and Q didn’t hear him quite that close behind him until there was warm breath next to his ear, an amused warmth that made him jump and stiffen, “And if I told you that I break into her flat, too?”

“Good grief…” Q groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose in utter exasperation to distract himself from the heat still curling up and down his back from 007’s mere presence. As always, the man had sex-appeal and knew how to use it – or flaunt it, actually.  Q despaired of the fact that he was apparently becoming a target of 007’s seduction tactics, as well, and he was sure that the agent was laughing again as he went to fill his bowl with soup.  Q grabbed his own bowl and followed in a clumsy rush, suddenly wondering if he really should trust 007 around his food.  “I don’t even want to know.  You’re going to get shot one of these days,” he said as he came up next to the larger man, trying to identify the soup even as Bond ladled some out in precise, controlled motions.

“Remember who you’re talking to, Q,” Bond chided with the kind of false warmth that felt almost real enough to wrap himself up in.  Q felt another confusing emotion of regret and curiosity, wondering how a person could live with only facsimiles of feelings.  Because for all that Bond sounded genteel and friendly right now, he was purely calculating, watching Q like a possible target even though he was cooking him supper.

It looked like Bond had taken a mundane can of chicken-and-noodle soup and had spiced it up with various additions from Q’s fridge and pantry.  It smelled heavenly, definitely better than whatever Q had been planning on eating before collapsing into bed.  When 007 handed him the ladle, he was quick to fill his bowl, savoring the aroma. Bond remained close behind him, near enough to be inappropriate – to be tempting.  It took a deep breath and a careful count to ten for Q to keep his head and speak as calmly and dryly as if they were back in Q-branch, “I’m presently talking to a 00-agent with a reputation for getting into more trouble than is absolutely necessary. If you were more careful and less reckless, you’d end up in Medical far less often – and subsequently traumatize the staff there less often.”

“Traumatize?” Bond said in a hurt tone that was utterly ruined by the fact that he sounded smug about it. Then his head dipped down, and Q felt a quick kiss flutter against the skin of his neck.  “You’re a cruel man, Quartermaster.”

“Oh, I’m the cruel one?” breathed the smaller man, unsure what tone he was going for but knowing he had missed it entirely. He saved himself any further embarrassment by depositing the ladle back in the soup and removing himself to the table, taking a deep and hopefully subtle breath to push down the tremors running up and down his spine like fingers.  Like the thought of Bond’s fingers.  Like the thought of his _mouth_. The man really was a walking, talking death-trap, baited with the promise of sex and who-knew-what else. Blue eyes like chips of glacier followed him, making no comment or giving anything away, as if he hadn’t even done anything.

It was a rather tense supper, despite the fact that Bond left Q alone at the table, eating instead with a hip cocked against the counter.  It wasn’t an attempt to respect Q’s personal space, the Quartermaster knew intuitively; a 00-agent of Bond’s caliber was always slightly on-guard, and after watching Bond on missions, he knew that 007 was even worse. The man never really turned his instincts off, so the perch by the counter had nothing to do with regretting his teasing of Q and everything to do with physical, spatial advantage. The man would react faster while standing, and could see more of the room with only the cupboards at his back.

Well, if 007 wasn’t going to apologize for stepping out of bounds, then Q wasn’t going to do anything about it either. Proving that he could be stubborn where Bond was flippant, Q buckled down to eating as if nothing had happened and as if he didn’t have a top-class assassin in his kitchen. The soup really was delicious, the bland taste of canned soup enlivened by whatever else Bond had put in, creating a meal that a restaurant would have been hard-pressed to rival. By the time he’d eaten his fill, the smaller man was once again centered and in control of himself again, and he faced Bond with calm politeness, “Thank you.  That really was very good.”

“You’re welcome. Your culinary selection leaves something to be desired, but at least I know all the tech works.” Bond tipped his head towards the various appliances, which did indeed work with unparalleled efficiency, because Q would accept no less.

Q let the silence hang as he gave careful thought to Bond’s words, deciding for himself if that was a sort of apology – or if it was anything at all.  007’s keen blue eyes looked anything but apologetic, and were still watching Q as the agent went through his second bowl. It was a quietly insatiable look: hungry for information, always ready to take the upper hand even if there was no pressing reason to. The man had so much training that Q wondered if there was anything left beneath it.  On the tip of his tongue, he felt the question hover: What had Bond been before MI6?

Instead, Q yawned. He’d had enough of trying to figure out 007.  “Well, I’m off to bed then. Since we both know that I’m rather unequipped to force you to leave, I’ll trust that you can find your own way out without dire threats.”  This was already feeling very much like a repeat of last time, only Q didn’t have a cast and 007 wasn’t getting nosy about his personal relationships. Another yawn made Q’s jaw pop, and he ran a hand back through his hair, feeling that the strands had almost dried, creating a dark mess atop his head.  He kept an eye on 007 to make sure the man didn’t follow him, but was sincerely unsure what he’d do if the man did.  007 was definitely handsome and Q had seen firsthand how skilled the man was in bed, but he was also fairly sure that he didn’t want casual sex with a man who only ever used his connections with people as weapons. Still, he was more sleepily intrigued than afraid as he turned and walked to his room, at least trusting by this point that 007 wouldn’t kill him in his sleep. Like M had said, even Bond had his limits, chancy those they were.  “Good night, Bond.  Break into my house again and expect a sharply worded report regarding your actions to turn up on M’s desk,” Q informed him, completely without rancor. Bond would ultimately do as he liked, and so, ultimately, would Q.

 

~^~

 

Q did not end up with a 007-shaped visitor in his bed by morning, and woke up to an empty house with clean dishes once again piled in the rack to dry. In the light of day, the evening before seemed positively surreal, and Q shook his head and wondered if he was mental for dealing with 007 as he had.  Then again, what other options were available? Social norms said that he should have slapped Bond for that daring little kiss to his neck, but social norms also said that killing people was wrong, but MI6 spies did rather a lot of that on a regular basis.

Clearly, Q was going to have to come up with some atypical solutions for dealing with an increasingly ‘friendly’ James Bond.

Briefly, as he made himself the tea that would be his breakfast, Q considered asking M what she did when 007 broke into her house, if the man truly had been doing that in his spare time. However, considering M’s temperament versus Q’s, it was likely than her own solutions were somewhat more… merciless… than Q wanted to contemplate.  Most everyone else tried to deal with 007 through violence, but Q had seen what the man did with violence: he returned it, and what made matters worse, he was _better_ at it. There was no point in fighting a man on his own terms when that only assured your own defeat.

There was a bowl of soup in the fridge. Q hadn’t realized that he had any plastic containers, but apparently he did, because now he had a very serviceable lunch of leftovers for later, if he could carry it all the way to MI6 without dropping it. He took it out and once again shook his head at how absolutely, bloody odd Bond could be. He went from sexual to domestically friendly in seconds flat, all without really dedicating his full attention to either.

Q paused, thinking. Even when 007 had been crowding up behind him the night before in the kitchen, it hadn’t really seemed like the man was trying for a quick fuck. Q had seen the man do _that_ , and it didn’t quite fit Bond’s recent behavior – it was like seeing a picture slightly out of focus, the many different lines of the image not quite matching up to the original.  No… Bond was definitely acting atypically, which was fine by Q in this case, because he didn’t exactly want to be categorized as one of Bond’s targets-turned-bedmates.

Although that left him absolutely befuddled as to what exactly he _had_ been categorized as in 007’s mind, and what exactly the man wanted from him.

Q was still pondering this when his kettle startled squealing, the hot water ready to be made into tea and heralding the start to another day.

 

~^~

 

007 was sent on another mission, which kept him out of Q’s hair – it was instantly back to giving instructions through ear-pieces, exchanging dry comments for smooth, charming ones, and wiping security footage while Bond blew something up to cover his retreat. But as soon as the man got back to London, he was breaking into Q’s flat again.  Apparently, the threat to tattle on him to M had been seen as an encouragement rather than a deterrent.

Despite himself, Q found it… rather nice. Very, very strange and always slightly unsettling, but nice in certain ways.  Although he wouldn’t admit it out loud, his interrogation by MI5 had disconcerted Q, and the idea of people so high up in the system seeing him as a possible terrorist was disturbing.  007, however, seemed to like his Quartermaster just fine – more than ‘just fine’, if anything – and seeing his muscular form sprawled out on Q’s couch could be oddly comforting at the end of troubling days.  It was rather fun to think that if anyone were to try and arrest MI6’s Quartermaster in his own home, a guard-dog of 007’s proportions would stop them (although 007 wasn’t actually protective in the slightest, at least of anything other than his own life, and was more of a large feral cat than a dog).

So Q did his best not to think of himself as sharing space with a menacing stray cat, and Bond more or less behaved himself as he moved in and out of Q’s space on a regular basis. ‘More or less behaved’ meant that the sexual innuendos abounded. It seemed to come with the James Bond parcel, because Q just got used to having a warm hand touch his back or elbow whenever the man passed near him in the house, or blushed profusely whenever the man decided to use his shower and then barely bother wrapping his hips in a towel afterwards.  The view was stunning, but the suggestive overtones that unavoidably went with it were likely to kill Q with embarrassment before much longer. Getting angry and yelling at Bond did no good either, of course, because James would just grin and get that look in his eyes like razors wrapped in blue silk – watchfulness and allure all in one.

All in all, it proved Q’s theory correct that violent things like anger and yelling were not the way to deal with 007.

So Q changed tact. It was what he was good at. A good hacker was not necessarily a fast one or a powerful one, or even always a particularly smart one (although Q was capable of being all of these).  What really made Q the technological titan that he was stemmed from the fact that he was flexible.  So now he adapted unhesitantly, resigning himself to the fact that he’d have to find new ways to function around 007 without getting himself killed.

Bond liked to make himself impossible to ignore, that much was clear. More than a few times, he had purposefully provoked Q by getting into his personal space or startling him. What really turned the ‘agent’ side of the man on, however – like a match being thrown into waiting kerosene – was when Q started asking questions to try and figure him out. No sooner would the Quartermaster start demanding why in the world Bond couldn’t live at his own bloody flat than the game would be on.  Words were as much weapons to Bond as anything else, but he also knew how to catch a person’s curiosity and then grab hold of it, using it like a choke-chain to drag a person around with while he gave vague answers and no real facts.

However, although Q had fallen into the game more than once – and was generally trounced soundly and left very frustrated with a grinning 007 on his hands – the Quartermaster was smarter than the average person and, as mentioned, more flexible.

If those were the rules Bond was playing by, Q could learn them.

Instead of demanding what Bond thought he was doing every time the man appeared in his flat like a trouble-seeking missile, Q would merely stifle his initial shock and give the man a few measured blinks.  He’d keep his expression unruffled, and any curiosity he felt he kept inside, where it was content to stew and think things over silently – Q was a thinker before he was a talker anyway, giving orders in Q-branch notwithstanding. Sometimes he’d greet Bond – at worst, he’d huff a sigh and tell him there still wasn’t anything tempting in the fridge to eat.  Of course, that would usually lead to some reference to Q himself being tempting, but the smaller man would ignore it and go to the kitchen to microwave some take-out he’d had the night before. Of course, whenever 007 would sneak up behind him like a predator to sneak a hot press of lips to his ear or the back corner of his jaw, Q would still start and tense, but he refused to let it rile him.  This was just 007. This was what 007 did.

“I thought you were going to report me to M,” Bond observed one evening, as Q made himself grilled-cheese sandwiches on the stove (one of a short list of foods he could cook without setting off the fire-alarms) and the blonde agent stood behind him, too close to be professional.

Q was focusing half on his cooking and half on the hand idly stroking the furrow of his spine. He was willing to bet that this was one of 007’s unconscious intimate gestures; the more Q had been ignoring the overt ones, the more these had popped up.  It seemed the sexual side of the man never turned off, but tended to change forms when the situation shifted around him.  The absentminded shows of intimate affection still made the hairs rise on the back of Q’s neck and little shivers chase themselves across his skin, but it was still preferable to the more dangerous forms of allure 007 was used to implementing.

“Hmm,” Q remarked, patently disinterested, tone dry, “Thank you for reminding me. It’s been damnably busy in Q-branch, what with my program being duplicated and you 00-agents wreaking havoc in multiple countries.”

007’s smile was smug, although Q found himself wishing it didn’t have the sharp edges – that, however, seemed like wishing a blade didn’t have an edge. It was an ingrained part of the object, and removing the danger would mean breaking the thing itself to remove it. “I did some of that havoc,” the man observed in a proud tone, and leaned a little closer so that his chin brushed Q’s hair – his smile imprinting against the dark curls.  Q didn’t jump, but heaved a sigh at the incorrigible nature inherent ro 00-agents. He elbowed Bond back without fear as he moved to get his food onto a plate before it burned.

“Yes, so instead of reporting you to M, I’ve been repairing tech and writing reports for the loss of even more tech.”

“That sounds like an incentive for me to destroy things,” Bond said, voice dropping into that velvet-edged tone that said he’d like very much to destroy something else more. Some _one_ else.

Q didn’t rise to the bait, guessing that it was a fifty-fifty chance that 007 wasn’t even doing it consciously. “Sounds like a reason for me to give you nothing but a squirt-gun and a flashlight on your next mission,” he corrected loftily, “Keep that in mind next time you consider misbehaving.”

“When do I ever consider anything else?” was the very, very prompt reply, and Q couldn’t argue with that. If the man was ever thinking about anything other than weaknesses to attack, angles to wedge himself into like the knife he was, or trouble he could sew to better his own odds of survival, Q hadn’t had the pleasure of seeing it.

And that saddened him more than he thought it would, as he put his slightly-burnt meal onto a plate and let 007 take the second one without a fight.

 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, sorry that I promised action in this chapter and didn't give any - as usual, my plans stretched a bit longer than I expected XD For everyone one chapter I plan, I seem to write two...hence the fact that my previous wingfic ended up being over 40 chapters. 
> 
> However, that means the next chapter should see things heating up! Because some people haven't forgotten Q and his flash-drive, and that mugging at the beginning was only the start of Q's troubles...
> 
> Also: much thanks to a lovely commenter who described 007 as a stray cat (~.^) I found the description so delightful I had to use it!


	9. As Genteel as a Bullet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q still has a 00-agent in his house - for the most part. And when he's not being stalked by 007, it's MI5 trying to keep tabs on him. 
> 
> Therefore, it's quite ironic that someone else entirely ends up catching a certain Quartermaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently being a senior in college means free time is a myth... This chapter is about two pages longer on a Word document than my usual ones, so hopefully that makes up for the lateness of posting!
> 
> For those of you reading 'Hand that Holds the Leash', I also apologize for the lack of posting. I'm hoping to make the next chapter the last one, but subsequently, it is very, very long XD

It took Q awhile to realize that this – the repeated break-ins and loitering in his house – was Bond being worried about his new Quartermaster.  No one had ever expressed concern in such a deranged, socially unacceptable fashion, but that was what it was, Q was sure, by about the sixth time he came home to be startled by 007 haunting his couch like a big lazy lion. The full realization actually hit Q while he was lying awake in bed (with Bond possibly still in the house – there was never any way to tell because the man never deigned to make a noise when he moved) and Q was left staring at the ceiling and trying to decide whether he was going insane or not.

James destroy-everything-that-moves Bond: worried about his new and apparently interesting Quartermaster. Would the wonders never cease?

The agent in question had made it clear through innumerable missions and actions that he never cared about anything or anyone other than himself – was possibly incapable of such attachments – and was egregiously dangerous to those around him at least eighty-percent of the time.  The other twenty-percent, at least so far as his interactions with Q were concerned, was spent acting absentmindedly sexual in a way that still confused the hell out of Q more often than not.  Through much concentration and effort, he’d managed to slot all of those actions into a part of his mind where he could deal with them without blushing from head to toe. Although he’d never thought he’d see the day, the new Quartermaster was actually becoming used to feeling a competent hand alighting on his hip and a mouth taking liberties as it brushed against his ear where most people would just lean over and say ‘hello.’  That was just what Bond did when he was sharing space with another person. Bond used sex and violence on a regular basis, so it was to be expected that some of that would stain through to his regular life – Q just had to be grateful that none of the violence had come along with the absentminded seduction.

The realization that 007 was expressing worry for his safety, however, was another thing altogether, and much harder to neatly categorize, even for Q’s mathematical mind. The signs were there, though, albeit hidden beneath the many odd quirks and tics that 007 possessed. He prowled around Q’s house, followed him home and lingered, nosed into his business, and on more than one occasion let himself be caught watching Q with something other than cold, calculating attention – or perfectly fabricated carnal interest – in his blue eyes. Q had seen the man be brutal, but so far he had yet to even come close to damaging his Quartermaster, and actually seemed to move around him quite carefully, regardless of whether he was being nosy or improper.

“What exactly do you think you’re protecting me from?” Q asked out of the blue one day, as he was hunched over his kitchen table, which was presently littered with pieces of tech that he was trying to build into a serviceable EMP device to his own specifications. He’d finally had enough of the uncertainty and figured he may as well ask, considering that he’d never gotten an adverse reaction to bold questions before.  The worst that could happen would be that 007 wouldn’t answer, or that this would just feed the man’s hunger for information by revealing Q’s curiosity.

Of course, there was also always the option of violence when it came to Bond, but Q had honestly decided that if 007 were going to do him bodily harm, it would have happened already. Honestly, if there was going to be bodily anything, it would have happened already, but 007 seemed quite happy toeing this rather precarious and strange status quo between them.  

Glacial blue eyes slid his way from over on his couch.  007’s mouth was set in that perpetually thoughtful fashion that Q knew to recognize as the man mulling over a piece of information – which he nearly always was – and lining it up with what else he knew about a person before speaking. Of course, after having been on literally hundreds of missions, the man could compound information and find the best angle to approach conversations from in seconds, and he was speaking without a hitch:  “What makes you say that, Q?”  His tone and eyes reflected joviality and amusement so perfectly that Q was hard-pressed not to abandon his line of questioning as ridiculous.

“Well, you _do_ hover around my house for no bloody reason that I can think of,” Q shrugged, pretending that he wasn’t looking at someone who was so convincing.  As so often before, he simply had to remind himself that he was dealing with a professional liar, and a man who liked to manipulate people as a matter of principle.  “And I’m hardly your usual fare, so I doubt it’s for my company,” the Quartermaster said as dryly as dust, the faintest calm little smile tipping up one side of his mouth to match the totally false smile on Bond’s.  He saw a glimmer of real amusement ignite 007’s unmoving eyes in response. “So what else can it be but spontaneous mother-henning?”

“Could be your wit. Just because you don’t look anything like the brand of leggy-blonde I favor doesn’t mean I don’t like that mouth of yours.”  Bond added just enough to his smile to make the comment lewd, his eyes narrowing with a challenging bit of fire only emphasized by the way he lazily swirled the wine in a tumbler in his hand (both purloined from Q’s cupboard – Bond had critiqued Q’s abysmal choices in alcohol, but both of them knew that 007 would drink anything with a bit of burn to it).

Q brushed off the innuendo as if it were second-nature to him by now, not batting an eyelash, although he did put down his work to just sit at the table with his forearms folded serenely in front of him.  “Try again, 007,” he requested unabashedly.  It was very eerie and strange to be verbally sparring with a man who had a kill list longer than some of Q’s most complicated lines of code, and who was probably two Psych-evals away from being labeled as a sociopath.

Although still swirling his drink idly, the rhythm had changed, Q’s eyes and numerical mind catching it like a trained orchestra director catching a switch in tempo. Besides that, there was very little to give away 007’s increasing interest in the little game, even while his body seemed to relax. He was sprawled on Q’s couch as if he owned it, although he’d picked a spot that allowed him to watch all of Q’s movements in the kitchen. Q wondered how in hell he could possibly be enough of a threat to 007 to warrant attention like that. “Call it a hunch,” the blond man finally said, voice growing more enigmatic.  It was bait, and he was stepping back from the lure with hooded eyes and a vast storage of patient energy.  Q had never seen an agent who could wait like Bond could. Q would have been tempted to step right into it, except he knew a thing or two about how 007 worked, and that he’d be pounced upon with the gleeful cheer of a tomcat upon a mouse if he asked for clarification.  In fact, he could almost see the tail swishing in readiness now.

Q sighed, knowing that there was really no winning a contest like this, and gave his head a shake before putting more questions into the mental box of ‘Never going to get an answer from Bond that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg and half my sanity.’ That was the thing Q had actually learned thus far: one could make little wins in a verbal battle against 007, but the man had been an agent so long and was so well trained in espionage that he’d always come out again in the end. Bond’s victories were tallied in snatches of information, and while Q couldn’t for the life of him think of any info that he needed to hide from a 00-agent, he still didn’t exactly like being picked apart like the subject of an interrogation.  “Most of the time, in my experience,” he ultimately chose to say as he went back to work, purposefully ignoring what the agent on his couch was doing – because ultimately Bond would do whatever he wanted whether Q was watching or not, “someone calling something a hunch is just a mysterious way to say they haven’t the faintest idea.”

It was meant as a subtle challenge, and the Quartermaster was actually rather surprised when it was met by silence. A bit worried, Q lifted his eyes, finding the older man looking down pensively into his drink. Then, with a decided sort of air, the agent downed the rest of it in one swallow and stood.

“Thank you for the drink, Quartermaster,” he said with genteel politeness, walking past Q and raising the empty glass to him.  The glass was deposited into the sink without any damage being done to it (although Q still watched, craning his neck, paranoid after having so much of his tech returned in mutilated little pieces), and with no more care than if he were walking back out of a library or restaurant, 007 left the house.

Q was left rather stunned, needle-nosed pliers still in one hand and about a million questions piled up in his head as he stared at the closed door that broad shoulders had just disappeared through.

 

~^~

 

MI5 had put tails on Q. It wasn’t their forte by any means, but what were they to do when the person they wanted to keep tabs on worked for the people who generally were keeping the tabs?

Because of that, the tails were relatively easy to spot, although Q was still initially alarmed when he realized that someone had followed him through his morning commute. A quick check with M, however (and a little bit of hacking that no one had to know about), was literally all it took to divine the purpose of Q’s new shadows.

“I can always call and ask them what the bloody hell they think they’re accomplishing by stalking my Quartermaster,” M said quite tartly on the matter, and Q had to suppress a faint smile as he thought about other stalkers – ones with a double-o status who also seemed to have an invested interest in keeping Q close – who were far more deadly and unlikely to be deterred by something as simple as a few phone calls. “But in the end, it will probably be more trouble than it’s worth. Unless they’re affecting your private life or your work, I suggest you ignore them, Quartermaster.”

“Oh, they’re not a bother,” Q was quick to assure, voice mild but with the omnipresent edge of professionalism that served him well in a world that always saw him as too young, too inexperienced. Mop of hair brushing the edges of his glasses, he professed sincerely, “Unnerving, perhaps, but I can understand why they’re doing it.  I’m sure that MI5 is just waiting for me to rendezvous with some unsavory character to hand over my skills and technology at the slightest provocation.” By the end, there was perhaps a hint of an edge in his voice, and his eyes felt flinty behind his glasses.

M almost smiled. Her eyes slanted slightly in that way that indicated she was fighting amusement beneath the practiced, icy mask. Perhaps her mouth curled up at the corner. “I’m sure that they’ll realize that that is not the case,” she said, instantly imparting more of a compliment than Q had ever come to expect from her. He found himself blinking, strangely touched by her trust, even though he’d already known that she believed in his loyalty to MI6 and to England. Apparently, that faith was stronger than he’d thought, and he was glad.  She straightened her back in a prim motion that indicated this meeting – and its moments of almost-humor and hidden confidence – was at an end. “If it becomes a problem, I’ll contact MI5, and tell them their so-called covert surveillance is unnecessary. Until then, keep a running report, in case we need to refer MI5 to this infraction later on.”

Q more than knew the finer uses of blackmail when he saw them, and he allowed himself a small twitch of his lips as he stood.  “Of course, M.” With that, he tucked the expression away as if it had never existed – a little trick he was swiftly learning from working with some of the shadiest people in England – and exited the room.

 

~^~

 

Over the next three days, Q was less troubled by the constant MI5 employees and their abysmal attempts at following him undetected, and more troubled by the fact that 007 hadn’t broken into his house in days.

The agent wasn’t on a mission. Q would have known that, obviously – he’d probably be developing a headache right this minute trying to explain why Bond could finish a mission without burning down a building and/or getting under the skirt of his target’s wife.  Since he didn’t have that headache, and also didn’t have the repeated heart-attack of coming into his house and flicking on the lights to find a mass of muscle all but at his elbow (because of course Bond had personal space issues), it meant that James Bond had mysteriously decided that hunting Quartermasters was no longer something he did in his spare time.

Q didn’t know whether to be relieved or more than a bit worried.

Of course, Q had lots of ways to find people, if the desire crossed his mind. The reproduction of his Vas-drive was still keeping him occupied, because some of the parts had to be shipped in, they were so specific. He’d already worked his fingers to the bone in a few all-nighters, as he’d actually modified things himself – the flashdrive itself was that specific to get it to do exactly what he wanted it to. Still, as he now waited on the mail, Q had a bit of free time, and used it unscrupulously to hunt down 007.

Credit cards. Traffic and security cameras. All of them were Q’s eyes in nearly any place in the world, and he was so used to hacking those close to home from before he’d become Quartermaster that it was like putting on a familiar pair of leather gloves to go back to it now. He began to look for the cars Bond was known to drive (the man had a few, and ‘borrowed’ more, but Q was aware of all of them from records), and traced any possible credit cards for use. Q was good at what he did, and just because he mostly used that to assist agents on missions didn’t mean that was all he was capable of doing.

Of course, tracking 007 was far more difficult than hunting down a random drug-trafficker who didn’t know that there were systems in place that could track even the simplest cell-phones. Even when he wasn’t actively hiding – and there was no reason for Bond to be wary while on home turf – 007 had habits that made him difficult to find, and of course that was just Q’s luck. He shouldn’t have been so surprised. If nothing else, what he’d learned since he’d first started dealing in close quarters with Bond was that the man was always on his toes, always acting as if some switch inside of himself were flicked permanently to ‘on’ and keeping his training active. Therefore, the agent paid for most things in cash, avoided cameras like most people avoided muddy puddles, and dodged traffic cameras an awful lot for a man whose main delight on missions seemed to be running red lights in heavy traffic.  It was like trying to catch a wolf on camera: one could catch only glimpses and shadows.

It was an unexpectedly enjoyable challenge.

Still, all it proved was that Bond hadn’t hightailed it out of London, nor did he appear to be in any sort of trouble (not that Q knew what sort of trouble could possibly stand up before an assassin of Bond’s caliber).  Q was left wondering if it had been something less physical that had caused the shift in behavior…like the unexpected implication from a certain Quartermaster about whether James Bond worried about him or not.

“Can a 00-agent really scare that easily?” Q asked himself in an incredulous undertone on the tube home from MI6, unable to believe this was his life right now. It was ridiculously late…or early, depending on one’s perspective…and the subway had that forgotten feel where it was nearly empty.  He hadn’t seen his MI5 companions in awhile, but they’d actually been getting a little better (if by ‘better’ Q were being honest and upgrading them from ‘bloody obvious’ to ‘vaguely obvious’).  They’d also been getting rather useful, Q had found out to his pleasant surprise, when a little scuffle had broken out during his last commute and they’d stepped in to quell it. Apparently, being a potential threat to the country meant that he also was worth protecting, because the two MI5 agents that he’d been absentmindedly keeping an eye on had stepped in and subdued the angry commuter almost before Q could decide whether to walk briskly away or not. After that, Q had considered buying them scones, but figured it would ruin the grateful mood to so blatantly admit that he knew they were there. After all, the two men were nowhere near as sneaky as 00-agents, and the Quartermaster had had one of those padding around his house for over a week (barring the last few days).

Perhaps MI5 was getting sneakier, though, because Q hadn’t seen them in awhile, despite the emptiness of the subway at 3 AM.  Unable to ignore the possibility that he’d rankled Bond by bringing up the subject of him acting protectively, the exhausted Quartermaster tried not to constantly sigh and roll his eyes at the utter irony of it all. Apparently, it was all fun and games and sexual content until the Quartermaster got wise to what 007 was actually doing. Or perhaps opened 007’s eyes to what he was actually doing, assuming that most of Bond’s actions had been more subconscious than he’d thought.

Deciding that missing two nights of sleep was to blame for these ideas – or at least made them suspect until he had a good eight hours to sleep on them and reconsider – Q got off the train and shuffled to the platform, more than ready to just be home in bed. He was quite good at staunchly ignoring such mundane things as sleeping and eating, but the level of focus he was putting into his new project as well as the everyday works that came from being Quartermaster with a whole branch under him meant that the skipped meals and too-short cat-naps were starting to wear him down. Eyes feeling heavy and scratchy, Q took off his glasses for a moment to rub at his eyes, just noticing his MI5 retinue still hadn’t made an appearance before he did so.

Before Q could slip his glasses back onto his face, a rough hand grabbed his elbow tight enough to bruise, squeezing while a body that smelled of sweat and too much cologne suddenly pushed up behind him.  “Walk, don’t talk,” was the growled command, a hint of some accent Q didn’t know roughening the edges of the words like sandpaper even as they worked to sound genteel. Momentum had actually carried them both forward a full three steps before Q’s taxed mind completely caught up with him, and he realized that he was not only caught by an unknown assailant, but also without his glasses on. Then Q wanted to smack himself, because he’d been slow and tired, of course, but he’d also let someone get the drop on him because he was depending on MI5’s unorthodox babysitting to watch his back for him.  The Quartermaster may not have been a well-honed killing machine like MI6’s agents, but he was still expected to be smarter than this, and the slip-up was unforgiveable. If Q weren’t so terrified, he would have been disgusted with himself. Either way, Q was awake and paying utter attention now, but the sharp prod off a gun at his back told him that he had precious few choices regarding what to do next.

Adrenalin was a painful electric charge in his system, igniting where one hand gripped his elbow, leading him forward, and the hard muzzle of a gun nudged his flesh through layers of clothing. Proximity and poor lighting would hide it, Q instinctively knew, but what frustrated him most was that he couldn’t even put his bloody glasses back on without it looking as though he were trying to wriggle loose or reach for a possible weapon.  He tried anyway, and received a jab to his back while the hand on his arm tightened to bone-grinding painfulness that made Q hiss. “Nuh-uh-uh, none of that,” was the rasped warning, “No tricks until we’re well out of sight.”

“And then bullets will become involved, am I correct?” Q scraped the words out past alarm and fear that had closed down on his throat.  Already he was disoriented about where he was, because glasses were truly a necessary thing for him: without them, he could only tell apart a person and a painted post because one of them moved. And if the latter just so happened to become mobile, he’d likely mistake it for a person, his eyesight was so bad. Now, all he knew was that the dirty-white shades of the walls were moving past him, while the emptiness of the subway grew more pronounced in his straining ears.

The answer was collected and calm, the words of a professional, which did not bode well at all – although at least professional kidnappers were less likely to panic and shoot mouthy Quartermasters out of spite.  “You’re too valuable alive to be shot, Quartermaster – yes, we know who you are.”

“Whereas I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure,” a smooth, low voice rolled out of nowhere in front of them, and Q jerked his head forward and wished for at least the millionth time in that day alone that his vision weren’t so bad. Even as James’s voice lacerated the quiet with idle precision, Q felt his kidnapper react with lightning speed, shifting his grip so he had Q’s lanky form pulled in front of him and the gun rising to the Quartermaster’s temple. The nudge of cold metal made him wince, but the man behind him had a grip of steel that was already threatening to take his arm out of socket, and the fact that he was showing his gun so easily meant that they’d reached a secluded area.  No witnesses.  Q’s glasses made a delicate noise as they landed largely unnoticed on the concrete, somehow not shattering while Bond’s shape materialized as a mass of gun-metal grey and crisp white.

Even with his abysmal eye-sight, Q could tell that the agent had his gun raised, his precise movements detectable even now as Q tried not to endanger himself worse. Whoever this man was, he had sounded calm and centered before, but now Q could feel tension radiating from behind him – and why not? If Q’s kidnapper knew that he had found himself the Quartermaster of MI6, then he should damn well recognize a ready and primed 00-agent when he saw one.  “Not another step, friend,” growled Q’s captor, who was smart enough to compress his frame behind Q’s, eliminating any clear shots at his person.

Bond’s posture didn’t shift in the slightest, so far as Q could tell, and his gun didn’t waver. The little grunt behind him said that the interloper was surprised, but Q honestly wasn’t. When he was on a mission, Bond was about as genteel as a bullet, and just as considerate of others. Q was maybe a little miffed about that, but ultimately he knew enough about how 007 worked to know that a hostage situation rarely registered as much of an obstacle to him – he’d have to feel something resembling guilt for that to happen.

Apparently, the man holding Q thought that more words would solve the problem of having one of the most lethal 00-agents in London training a weapon in his general direction. “Unless you want me to wreck this genius brain by putting a bullet in it-” Q winced despite himself as his skull was poked at by hard metal, and tried ineffectively to wriggle loose again, only to have his arm wrenched further behind him.  “-I’d suggest you stop where you are, agent. In fact, how about you put that gun down?”

“And just let you walk away with MI6’s Quartermaster?”  Bond didn’t sound impressed – either by the demands, or by the situation in general. If the man started yawning, Q would shoot 007 himself. “I’ll pass.”

“You’d rather I paint the wall with the contents of his head?” came the swift threat back, making Q’s stomach flip a little, and he hoped desperately that he wasn’t going to be sick. His eyes hurt from uselessly trying to bring everything into focus, and the adrenaline in his system was ramping up his heart-rate so high it hurt. Now, the visuals being added to that weren’t helping, and he stumbled a bit.

007 moved. Like a cat’s eyes being drawn to the broken wing of a bird, the agent shifted a split-second after Q inadvertently did, and his gun dropped and fired.  Q yelped as pain exploded up his leg from knee to hip, but as he dropped, he heard the stranger behind him shout, too, accompanied by a second gunshot – this one was the kidnapper’s gun, but it’s bullet went harmlessly high as Q dropped gracelessly to the floor as his leg refused to hold him. Agony. It was all agony. This was worse than his arm, worse than the time he’d fallen down the stairs on the way to the car-park after three all-nighters, gaining himself a night in Medical with a concussion. Blood seeped through his fingers as he instinctively curled over on his side to grab his leg, and that was when Q, wide-eyed with shock, realized it.

“You bloody homicidal bastard!” he snarled with significant feeling even as he gasped for breath against pain, “You _shot_ me!”

“Yes, but I shot the man behind you _better_ ,” was the calm reply, as Bond’s gun-metal-grey and gold-blond shape loomed closer and then stepped past Q without pause.  There was groaning from somewhere a meter or so back, then a hard crack that Q knew to be a blow from the butt of a pistol thanks to having heard it many times via earpiece. He winced in sympathy, but honestly had things of his own to worry about.

“Here.” Bond was back. Kneeling as Q’s side, he came a bit more into focus, expression showing nothing more than its usual flinty efficiency, as if he hadn’t just shot a coworker in order to drop a criminal. Efficient hands slipped the gun back into its holster beneath his jacket, and then Bond was ripping fabric he must have gotten from their foe to press against the wound in Q’s left thigh. Q hissed and swore as 007 applied pressure and moved Q’s hands over it to hold it down.

“You’re a menace,” Q fumed as soon as he could trust himself to speak coherently through tight, panting breaths. He hoped his glare felt as furious as he was without his glasses tempering the youthfulness of his features.

Bond looked at him, one eyebrow tipping as if he couldn’t understand what he was getting at. “I didn’t hit anything vital – just a flesh-wound.” Q sucked in a breath thought his teeth again as Bond wrapped a belt around the folded cloth to secure it all more firmly to Q’s injury. The belt was also neither 007’s nor Q’s, so at this rate, Q’s would-be-kidnapper would be nearly naked before all was said and done.  If he survived. “Your partner, on the other hand, might have a broken femur,” Bond finished in a tone that highly suggested that ‘might’ meant ‘definitely did’.  “I had to make sure he didn’t drag you with him, so I figured making you lame would do the job if it didn’t drop you out of the way entirely.”

“Well, it definitely dropped me!” Q snarked back uncharitably, unable to be happy about his rescue given the circumstances. “That gun of his went off barely above my head!”

“I wouldn’t say _barely_ ,” Bond sounded slightly amused, or charmed, as if an affectionate cat he knew had done something cute. Something like a smile was curling up the corners of his mouth, but without glasses, Q couldn’t be sure what the expression entailed as 007 continued to work over him. “Besides, don’t I get some credit for not killing him?  You and everyone else are always going on about how I never bring in enough people for questioning.”

Yes, Q probably should congratulate him on that – if nothing else, positive reinforcement was in order for an agent who so rarely made any effort to behave. Q was a bit too busy trying not to pass out from impending shock to do that, however, instead squeezing his eyes shut and breathing in sharply through his nose. Despite the blackness crowding at the edges of his vision, he managed to clench his teeth viciously and finally focus again.  “There were…” He took a deeper breath and wet his lips, still lying on his side and gripping his leg, even though Bond’s quick actions had already stemmed the flow of blood for now. “There were two MI5 personnel shadowing me. I think he might have killed them.”

He got silence for an answer at first, which was bloody frustrating, so the Quartermaster pulled himself together, opened his eyes, and found the vague direction of Bond’s face to demand, “Where are my glasses?  I’m not dealing with this – or you – a moment longer if I can’t bloody see anything.”

“A little blind on your own, aren’t you, Quartermaster?” was the honey-coated response, even as Bond unfolded to stand, briefly looming over Q before moving away to where Q’s glasses had been dropped.

Q sighed shakily, having forgotten this part of Bond’s nature: always poke, always prod, always scavenge the information you can, especially if it entails another’s weaknesses. “Don’t you even start,” the smaller man said with conviction.

A moment later, however, and he was focusing on Bond’s polished shoes next to his face as the agent squatted down next to him with his promised offering. “Here, let me,” the agent offered obligingly, and as Q’s [admittedly bloody] hands started to lift, 007 eased the glasses onto his Quartermaster’s face with deft grace and just the lightest brush of calloused fingertips on Q’s temples, which somehow still felt somewhat sensual. Now that Q could see properly, he blinked up, finding 007’s familiar, charming features directed down at him. The expression was familiar: mouth turned up at the edges in apparent friendliness, but eyes too cold and calculating to ever match, at least to someone like Q who’d learned to see past the golden mask.  The smile had too many edges, the eyes were a degree too chilly, although all of the pieces worked together to make an inviting, charismatic picture.  “Better, Q?”

“As ‘better’ as I can be with a hole in my leg,” Q pulled himself together again to grouse, but he was returning as best he could to his clipped, professional tones, looking around him to see that they were in a part of the subway he didn’t recognize, and there was blood spreading from a body a ways beyond his head. He arched a worried eyebrow, but asked only, “Status?”

“Two dead MI5 employees, one unconscious but regrettably alive kidnapper,” Bond tipped his chin towards the motionless body before turning a cheeky expression back to Q, “and one shot Quartermaster. How am I doing so far?” The smirk widened, but the way 007’s eyes skirted down Q’s body in swift motions hid something in his expression, and Q’s brows beetled as he tried to figure it out.

“I’m going to make sure your poor excuse for a kidnapper doesn’t bleed out,” Bond eventually said, pushing himself back to his feet and pacing over, leaving Q to belatedly scramble around for his phone. He’d kept his satchel this whole time, by some miracle, and was glad he hadn’t had anything breakable in it besides his phone, which seemed intact.  Q sucked in a breath as he saw his own blood smeared on his fingertips, and it took him a moment before he was able to wipe them off enough to turn his phone on. He got the sensation that 007 watched him the whole time, focused and quiet.

“Yes…Tanner? Yes, this line is secure. I’m with 007 right now, and we appear to have found ourselves in the center of a little altercation. No, Bond didn’t kill anyone. I’ve got a bullet-wound, though, and we’ve got two dead MI5 agents and an unidentified assailant whom Bond has incapacitated.  Yes, I’ll give you my exact location presently.”

 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yes, if there was any question about Bond being a cold bastard, hopefully his shooting of Q has allayed that suspicious XP I can't believe I just wrote 007 shooting his own Quartermaster...
> 
> Believe it or not, their relationship only escalates from here! \\(^u^)/


	10. Daring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q and Bond get back to MI6, at which point they have to decide what to do next...after all, if someone has been targeting the Quartermaster, they can't leave him alone, can they?
> 
> Well, _007_ sure can't leave him alone...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the first time, I have actually had someone beta one of my chapters! :D Apologies to those of you who have been bothered in the past by my errors - I prefer speed of updating over correctness, but that can be vexing, I know...
> 
> Anyway - a million thanks for my editor, who coaxed me into waiting for corrections, and then got my edited chapter back to me so fast I did a double-take! Enjoy :)

~^~

Things were hectic when Medical personnel from MI6 arrived, although Q derived some enjoyment from hearing 007 almost immediately being cussed out for shooting his Quartermaster. Other agents were already locking down the perimeter, but Tanner had been sent personally to deal with Bond, it seemed, and the usually mild-mannered fellow just barely kept his voice down while trying to get threats through 007’s thick head.  Failure on that account was imminent, of course, but it kept Q pleasantly distracted until someone got around to giving him some morphine.  Then he remembered very little as he was bundled back to MI6 and more sterilized conditions.

Bond went along.  He had a lot of explaining to do, although ultimately it came down to simple facts: the Quartermaster was, indeed, only superficially wounded (stitches were required but no lasting damage had been done to his leg), while the would-be-kidnapper had been effectively apprehended thanks to a bullet to his femur that would make running quite difficult for the time being, if not forever.  The shot had been superbly calculated, Q had to admit, but his impressed feelings probably depended heavily on the fact that he was floating on a layer of morphine. Lamenting the loss of a nice pair of trousers, he let himself drift off so as not to watch the efficient needles sewing up his skin.  All the while, he was aware of 007 and M standing not far away on the other side of the bed, Bond cutting a dashing but recalcitrant figure as he mulishly crossed his arms, M looking on the verge of losing her temper entirely as she verbally ripped him up one side and down the other.  The only sign that Bond was affected at all was the way he was glowering, which made Q want to grin – the effects of morphine had lightened his spirits and infused the situation with unnecessary humor, it seemed.

“How are you feeling, Quartermaster?”

Q blinked.  Some time must have passed, making his mind flounder for a moment as it tried to make sense of the gap.  M no longer looked like she was about to murder 007 in the middle of Medical, and Bond was looking as close as he could to chastised as he leaned a shoulder against the doorframe – which, to be fair, did not look very chastised at all.  His eyes had gone back to being flat and cool, as collected as the watchful gaze of a hawk upon a falconer’s glove.  The Quartermaster switched his attention back to M and got words out that were at least lacking in any slur, although all of him felt notably sluggish, “Well enough, given the circumstances.  My compliments to the doctors and nurses-”  He touched the edges of the bandage around his left thigh, situated between his boxer-briefs and his knee.  “-They’ve numbed me up so well I’m beginning to wonder if there’s actually a bullet-wound beneath this.”

“Oh, there is,” 007 had to put in cheekily, but his grin was there and gone very quickly because M rounded on him. Whatever look she gave him was enough to wipe his expression clean instantly.  Q was too pleasantly drugged to be annoyed, and wondered hazily whether his lack of response would annoy 007, who seemed to live off his ability to ruffle people’s feathers when he wasn’t living off the thrill of hunting down targets. _That_ thought made Q smirk slightly, before M’s voice was corralling his attention again. 

“Although your attacker is still being treated and has yet to regain consciousness, preliminary reports suggest that he was a professional,” the woman was saying, and her mouth turned down sharply at the edges as she added with clear distaste, “He dispatched the two MI5 employees with too much skill to be an amateur, although that hardly says anything for MI5’s skill either way.  They’ve already been informed, and I’m expecting a rather ugly conference call very soon regarding their involvement in this whole debacle.”

Q felt the need to say _something_ in MI5’s defense, feeling sorry for the deaths of two men likely in the wrong place at the wrong time, “They can hardly be blamed for this. MI5 was following me, true, but they never professed to be guarding my person against random kidnapping attempts.”

“True, but their presence has been a constant distraction, without which we – or you, even – might have foreseen this incident sooner,” M retorted, making Q look away, “007 at least did.”

The Quartermaster turned his head back to Bond, pushing aside the way the room swam a bit around him every time he turned his head.  The lack of pain was nice, but he was already making a mental note to avoid heavy-duty painkillers like this in the future.  The 00-agent hadn’t quit his perch yet, but neither did his expression give anything away except lazy tolerance and a sort of idle attention that Q knew to be anything but. Some people would have questioned the blond-haired man’s inexplicable timing at the subway station, but Q somehow wasn’t surprised at all.  Clearly, even if Bond wasn’t breaking into his flat lately, he was still tracking the Quartermaster as a way to use up his spare time. Blue eyes met Q’s unflinchingly with a bit of challenge, as if _daring_ Q to figure him out. 

After that, there was a bit more to go through: Q recounted exactly what had happened to the best of his abilities, and Bond admitted that he’d been following the Quartermaster under the hunch that someone was going to try and snatch him.  The agent actually explained himself quite well, so that even Q was nodding as 007 candidly pointed out that Q was the only person who knew how to make and program a device capable of stealing information from virtually anywhere.  MI5’s messy involvement had made the spread of information all too easy, and if not that, then the knowledge could have been leaked from elsewhere – even from the last mission, in which 007 had first used the little prototype at Q’s behest. M looked tense and slightly horrified behind her usual mask at all the cracks 007 was pointing out, but clearly this was a specialty of a man who exposed loopholes for a living. Bond didn’t have any hard facts to back this up, but Q already had his phone out and was messaging various members of his branch to gather information – although some of his texts were a bit clumsy, and finally M took the phone out of his hand with a sharp look. 007, the bastard, chuckled.

Medical technically didn’t have to keep Q, and the Quartermaster wanted nothing more than to just go home at this point to a place that didn’t feel like work and smell like antiseptic. The local anesthetic had worn off enough that his leg was staring to ache, and all of the events of the last few hours were beginning to feel a bit more real, which only compounded his exhaustion and desire to have a long shower and collapse into his own bed. If only because Q so rarely allowed himself to go home and rest, M gave in, calling the doctor who explained that Q would do best to stay on crutches, and wrap the bandages to keep them dry in the event of said shower. 

Q was also informed that going home on his own was not going to happen.  He’d almost been kidnapped, and everyone was also remembering that he’d also nearly been mugged on his own doorstep, which no amount of complaints of Q’s part could get anyone to forget.  Leaving no room for argument, M assigned Q a bodyguard: 007 would be escorting him home and providing armed protection against any more attacks on his person.

Instead of denying the orders, Q wanted to laugh, but figured that that would just force him to explain why it was so hilarious.  There was no better agent for the job, really, Q had to admit while keeping a straight face – after all, only 007 was acquainted with his house, and he already seemed to quite enjoy it there.  It would, in fact, be almost _normal_ to have him follow Q home and guard him there.  Even if that were not the case, the Quartermaster was too exhausted to care, and the lingering effects of the last dose of painkillers had left his brain feeling wiped and done for the day.

“Your crutch, Quartermaster,” Bond said smoothly, “unless you’d like a walker?”  His smile danced up on one side.

Sitting up and preparing to swing his legs over the side of the bed – already glancing around for trousers, because 007 might delight in public nudity, but the Quartermaster of MI6 did not traipse about in just his pants – Q snorted with tired, dry amusement, “A ‘walker’ would imply both legs being equally untrustworthy.  And before you ask: no, I do not want a wheelchair.” Apparently Q had been more out of it than he’d thought, because a pair of slacks that he remembered leaving in his office were now folded up at the food of his bed.  He reached for them optimistically while 007 remained at his bedside, his manner a mixture of polite cheer and carefully fabricated helpfulness, neither of which Q was entirely sure of the truthfulness of.

M had left the room, removing herself to the doorway to presumably talk to one of the doctors or nurses and give Q some privacy, albeit one that included Bond.  Still, Q didn’t mind by this point, having been startled on his way out of the shower more than once by the agent, so the state of undress wasn’t precisely new.  The hand that gripped his ankle to help him ease his wounded leg off the side of the bed was, however.  “All right?” the man asked, clearly asking about the pain-level, his blue eyes crystalline and clear like they got sometimes on missions. 

Q answered the raised eyebrow with a carefully exhaled breath and a nod once he was sitting on the edge of the bed, deciding that he hated pain medicine as much as he loved it, because it was keeping his leg numb but also refusing to clear out of his head. Then again, he’d been pulling all-nighters, so it could have simply been his lack of sleep.  “Much appreciated, 007,” he said through the tiny sliver of discomfort that had managed to work its way through his awareness, fading once he’d stopped moving. 

Determined to put on his trousers himself, Q made no comment as 007’s hand moved to his shoulder, the contact of the warm, powerful grip startling the Quartermaster just a bit – he paused for the briefest seconds in his motions, glancing up discreetly from beneath his fringe to catalogue the motion and 007’s expression.  Both seemed benign, however, or at least aloof and unreadable, so Q went on as if this were entirely normal.  This helpful grip kept Q from toppling off the edge of the bed as he leaned over and changed into new slacks, but the younger man categorized the helping hand in much the same way as the inadvertent sexual touches, like when 007 occasionally was standing close by and his hands seemed magnetized to the Quartermaster.  Obviously, the agent was a little bit more aware of what he was doing now, but his face was closed off in a more obvious way than usual – making his usual mask look stiff – which would have made Q curious if he weren’t so bloody tired.

Bond’s mask of pleasantry was quickly put back in place, however, making Q doubt that he’d seen the glitch in its place at all.  Fortunately, whether his expression was blank and closed off or charming and as welcoming as warm scotch, 007 seemed intent on being helpful: whenever Q so much as hinted at wavering, those strong, calloused fingers tattooed themselves on lean muscle and bone, so despite his general clumsiness and his bandaged leg, the Quartermaster was soon dressed again. He straightened and brushed a few wrinkles out of his shirt, feeling rather pleased with not having ended up on the floor or tipping back on the bed.  When he stretched out a hand for the single crutch he’d  been given, he found it immediately in his possession, 007 anticipating the movement as only a 00-agent could.  M was back in the room, eyeing them both – but Bond especially – with suspicion.  All she said, however, was, “007, I hope you realize that you’ll be doing paperwork until the day you die for this.  00-agents are _not_ supposed to shoot Quartermasters.”

Too be fair, that last line had a ring to it like someone telling their dog that shoes were not for chewing on, but Q still found secret delight in watching annoyance twitch 007’s features. Still, the agent controlled himself, and managed to look away from his boss without giving in to his temper. The one upside to Bond being as frigid as a glacier meant that fits of temper rarely happened in the heat of the moment – however, he was not above coldly calculated revenge later, which always worried everyone.  Seeing the way Bond was directing darkly irked eyes at the blankness of the wall, Q sighed, resigning himself to discreetly babysitting and ensuring that 007 didn’t try and upset the head of MI6.  “If you or Q-branch need anything, I’ll have my home computer,” the Quartermaster assured, far more civilly than his companions.  “I’d like to check the security footage to see if our prisoner had any accomplices-”

“You will do no such thing,” M cut him off at the knees, expression and tone brooking no argument before she went on, “While I admire your work-ethic, Quartermaster, I’ll make sure you don’t touch a computer until you get back to MI6, well-rested, even if I have to order 007 to sit on you.”

Q didn’t have to turn to feel the lascivious grin the agent in question responded with.

“Rest and recuperate, Quartermaster.  The work will still be here when you get back, and any attempts to mount further attacks on your person in the meanwhile will be met by Bond.  Am I right, Bond?”  She arched a warning brow his way, clearly trying to judge which way her unpredictable agent would jump.

Now that Q did glance over, he could see that the devilish grin was still taking up residence on Bond’s face, but its playfully wolfish edges made his next off-hand words far from encouraging, “Perfectly.  Bodyguard duty for a few days actually sounds like fun if there’s a chance I might get to shoot someone.”

“You already did,” Q deadpanned back, managing to be amused about the whole thing even if he kept his voice idle and dry, “Two someones.”  A hand lightly shoved his shoulder, but the attention that Bond usually paid to exerting just enough pressure to snap a neck was directed now at holding back his strength so that it barely jostled.  M was once again giving them both that look that said she wondered if they were both slightly mental, or perhaps hiding something from her.  Q was just about drugged up enough to tell her: ‘ _Yes, M, there is most certainly something going on.  007 has taken to living part-time in my apartment and a peculiar and as-of-yet-unidentified liking to my person.  When you warned me about him, you perhaps should have mentioned that he has sexual tension issues as well as a vendetta against personal space - mostly_ my _personal space_.’  The Quartermaster’s mouth stayed closed, however, and his eyes were mild and accepting as he watched M.  

The look M was casting them both was shrewd and canny, but ultimately, she decided that she had enough of a mess to deal with after having her Quartermaster shot and nearly kidnapped, and two dead MI5 personnel who probably should have left the spying to MI6.  Trying to decipher the mechanics at work between her most dangerous agent and most useful boffin was not on the menu for today.  “All right then.  Bond, take your Quartermaster to his flat.  If he comes back with any more bullet-holes, I’ll take it out of your hide.  Dismissed.”

~^~

The drive home (in one of the many vehicles Bond owned, as opposed to those he just ‘borrowed’/stole and drove for fun) was a bit of a blur for Q, although the last dose of pain medication that he’d been given before leaving Medical was kicking in like an ice-cube slowly melting.  It didn’t have the same punch as what he’d been given before, thankfully, but it still left his mind feeling softened around the edges – considering that he didn’t have much that needed his attention at the moment, however, it was almost pleasant. He wasn’t driving, his attacker was out of commission, and if this was really part of some larger plot, then hopefully Bond’s quick actions had foiled it at least for now, buying everyone (especially Q) some breathing room.  And even if that weren’t the case, and more trouble was barreling their way now, Q had Bond, and the man’s eagerness to shoot any other attackers was definitely sincere.  While Q leaned back tiredly in the passenger seat and watched buildings flash past through half-closed eyes, he noted how 007 alternated between charming and casual and stiff and distant.  When they parked, the man had settled on the former, but the Quartermaster still took note of how difficult it had been for the man to finally settle on what mask he wanted to wear.

Regardless of how arduous it had been for Bond to decide what face he wanted to show, it fit as seamlessly as always by the time he’d circled the car to open Q’s door, all genteel smiles and proffered hand.  The cold and interested light in Bond’s eyes said that he was waiting for the Quartermaster to shake off his assistance out of pride, but Q had long-since found that pride was just another thing that 007 liked to twist and yank at to give himself leverage – and besides, being assisted out of a car would hurt Q’s pride far less than falling on his face if his leg became uncooperative.  The hand that assisted him to his feet remained near him, briefly gliding down his side like a person checking to be sure something was still where they expected it to be, before Bond closed the door behind him and proceeded to shadow Q up to his apartment door. 

The stairs were accomplished with less trouble than expected.  Bond was as strong as he was subtle, and he easily supported Q’s weight with a hand under his elbow when the smaller man forewent his crutch in favor of just limping up the short string of steps.  “I’m finding it ironic that this is probably the first time you’ve used the front door without a lock-pick,” Q found the energy to comment with a small quirk of his mouth as he let them both into his house, unsurprised when 007 followed him in as quietly as a ghost.  A bloody big ghost, but noiseless all the same, so smooth and naturally quiet that the hairs on the back of Q’s neck didn’t even stand on end at the sensation of an entity behind him.  He wondered how many people the man had killed without them even having the decency of realizing something dangerous was treading on their shadow.  The only sign that 007 hadn’t disappeared entirely between one breath and the next was that the door was closed and relocked quietly without Q touching it, and another hand flicked the light-switch, bathing the room in a soft light.

“You do whatever it is you do when you’re in my house without my say-so,” Q gestured vaguely, his mind already narrowing to the idea of a good shower and then a hard sleep.  Despite his assurances to M that he wanted to work, he suddenly found the entire idea untenable, if only because his brain capacity was swiftly disintegrating into nothing. 

“And what will you be doing?” asked Bond back smoothly, being inveterately nosy.  Q spared a glance back to see that the man was still following him, lazy smile fixed in place like he wore that face all the time – which he did, but that didn’t make it any more real.  “Most enjoyable activities are rather ruined by a bum leg,” the man pointed out with a definitely suggestive smirk, his eyes dancing even as he remained outwardly unapologetic for shooting his Quartermaster in the line of duty.

“I’d like to think that a shower would still be enjoyable regardless,” Q brushed off the remark. Later, perhaps, he’d spare a moment to be proud of himself for how easily he worked around a man who’d made it his life’s purpose to prick at people, needling them until he could see how they ticked…or they tried to shoot him.  He tended to be the victor in either case, so Q could hardly fault 007’s techniques. “Plus, Medical gave me this wonderful Cellophane-like stuff that’s supposed to keep bandages and stitches dry, and despite myself I’m rather dying to see if it works,” the smaller man went on to say for the fun of it, keeping his tone light and drier than one of Bond’s martinis just to prove he could.  He added as he reached the bathroom, “The engineering side of me is intrigued – or perhaps that’s the pain-medication and exhaustion talking.”

He got no reply, which was probably a mercy, considering how thick Q’s head was feeling, and how very real the fatigue he’d mentioned was.  As he awkwardly shoved the door closed (half-succeeding, not getting the latch to click, but not caring enough to try again), Q sighed a shuddering breath as he felt the weight of utter weariness slam down on him.  It had already been a long day…night…week…and as the Quartermaster of MI6, he could fake coherency quite well when what he really needed was food and sleep, but right now it had all been knocked right out of him. Dropping his glasses with a careful clink on the side of the sink, he dragged his cardigan and shirt off over his head while muttering, “Bloody Bond and his bullets.”

“It was either that or bloody kidnappers and _their_ bullets,” the easy voice answered, from close enough that Q would have had a heart-attack if had the alertness for a reaction like that.  Instead he got his head free, staring nearsightedly to find a familiar shape with broad-shoulders and vaguely yellowish hair now filling the doorway to his bathroom.

Q took about half a minute to decide whether to blow up on the man and give him a loud and lacerating lecture about privacy.  Again, weariness was the deciding factor, and the Quartermaster sighed out another pensive breath as he decided it wasn’t worth the effort.  He replied with a passably untroubled voice as he slowly folded up his wrinkled clothes by touch, “Kidnapper, _singular_. It hasn’t been proven yet whether you’re right about me being targeted.”

“We’ll see,” was the hummed response, and Q could see just well enough to make out the larger man shifting his weight to settle against the doorframe, immovable, arms crossed, as if he belonged there. 

Despite the low chances of success, Q said even as he pretended to focus on his belt, “I don’t know what 00-agent-school taught you about bathroom etiquette with coworkers, but watching one undress for a shower is rarely considered polite.”

Predictably, Bond ignored him altogether. “Just how blind are you?” he asked instead with evident interest verging on disgruntled disbelief, fabric shifting as he leaned forward slightly. 

Q’s eyes flicked up, and although he truly couldn’t see a thing of the man’s expression besides a general blur, he knew a dangerous question when he heard it.  He could feel laser-sharp eyes on him, imagine the coldly curious smile that came with always looking for weaknesses, testing them like brittle bones beneath calloused fingertips.  “Could we perhaps save the prying questions until I’m out of the shower?” Q asked as he reached to turn on the water, using all of his skill not to make it sound like the plea it was, although with exhaustion ringing his eyes and glasses nowhere to hide it, he figured he looked rather pathetic.  Then again, even at his best, he could hardly look like any kind of challenge for 007, which was strangely comforting: whether he was at the top of his game or in the state he was in now, the rules were pretty much the same.  007 was still lethal and Q was still the Quartermaster who’d never have a snowball’s chance in hell of beating him in a fight, but somehow kept up with him verbally and intellectually. “I’m sure that I can look up the actual prescription to satisfy your curiosity, or give you a full dissertation on the topic of nearsightedness,” the Quartermaster managed to finish while also giving up on decorum and taking off his trousers, leaning a bit awkwardly on the sink when he had to put weight on his bad leg.  007 didn’t move, but Q also didn’t fall.  “ _After_ I shower, though. I’m sure you can keep yourself occupied until then.” 

It was an unexpected gift when 007 remained silent after that, merely standing and presumably watching while Q wrapped a coating of what honestly looked like plastic-wrap around his thigh. Q cheerfully counted it as a win that he got all of the bandages waterproofed without himself toppling over or Bond laughing, although Q himself would have had a good chuckle if he weren’t so bloody exhausted.

Determined to ignore the 00-agent for the time being, Q skinned off what was left of his clothing. He would have tried to slip past the shower curtain as swiftly as possible then, hiding himself, but he was smart enough to know that that wouldn’t end well in any sense of the word. Besides, he’d already seen James quite naked (on numerous occasions) – so this could only be construed as fair. Even when doing so slowly and consciously, it was difficult to move about without slipping and falling. The medication was sinking in enough that all Q felt was a deep sort of ache, but the torn muscle also felt numb and weak, and Q hadn’t exactly been a pinnacle of grace and balance before then. Still, he managed, and sighed when he got the shower curtain between himself and 007. 

The water – thank _god_ – was hot already, and Q stuck his entire body under it, letting the water spray across the top of his head and wash away his thoughts for a moment.  He sighed, relaxing rather quickly for someone who knew that he still had a 00-agent in the room.

Or, rather, somewhat closer than that.

It was a few moments more – long enough for Q to just stand and breath, water pouring through his curls and dripping off his chin – before the shower curtain shifted, something that could have been mistaken for a breeze if this weren’t a bathroom far from any windows. It was a miracle that the Quartermaster didn’t have a small heart-attack when he belatedly took note of the company slipping in behind him.  “ **Bond**!!  You bloody fucking _shit_ -!” Q yelled, twisting in shock and slamming a hand into a broad, bare chest before nearly slipping off his feet in the process. 

Bond caught him easily, keeping his own balance with a cat’s ease even as water dampened his skin, speckling flexing arms and tanned shoulders.  “Easy, Q,” he chided with barely hidden amusement, pretending rather poorly to sound merely polite as he offered, “Can’t have you falling in the shower because of that leg now, can we?”

“That’s your brilliant excuse for sneaking up on a bloke in the shower?” Q deadpanned, too stunned to be anything else – too stunned to even be properly angry, honestly.  As he regained his footing, facing Bond with the man’s hands still clasping his forearms with almost lazy strength, Q took in the expanse of naked skin with a flick of his eyes.  He wished for a heady second that he had his glasses on, before he crushed that reaction, reminding himself that he was dealing with 007, who used his looks for weaponry as much as he used guns.

007, completely immune to any sort of embarrassment – and having no reason to be embarrassed over his athletic figure anyway – was grinning.  “I figure it’s a pretty good excuse,” he shrugged off Q’s dryly accusing tone, “Making sure you don’t hurt yourself worse _is_ my job, at the moment, and I doubt that you want to explain to M and Medical that you concussed yourself in the shower.”

No, Q did not…  Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, the Quartermaster tried to decide how to deal with this.  In some ways, 007 was a flawed machine: no off-switch, and filled with so much atypical programming that he couldn’t be counted on by any normal rules that usually governed normal people.  Bond lied, Bond seduced, and Bond bloody well never let things sit if he could muddy the waters a bit.  But Bond also did all of this naturally, out of reflex, so Q was aware that this sudden attack on his privacy might actually be some incredibly twisted way of the man apologizing for shooting him. 

“Well then, let’s hope I don’t fall,” Q eventually said quite calmly, not bothering to try and catch what expression that won him (nearly ninety-five percent of 007’s expressions were fabricated anyway, and Q didn’t have his glasses to check). He turned around, facing the water again slowly.  Bond’s hands followed him, drifting along so that there was always some point of contact – usually around his elbows or upper arms, so Q knew the reaction would be instantaneous if he stumbled.  Feeling increasingly sure that his guess about 007’s intentions were correct, the smaller man asked unconcernedly, “Any chance I could bother you to pass me the shampoo? It’s back and to your left.”

It was a gamble, and Q shivered a bit as he waited – back turned to arguably one of the most dangerous men on the planet, certainly in Britain, a man who made a habit of removing problems suddenly and permanently.  Still, if this was how 007 was deciding to play for the evening, Q could dance right along, so long as the situation stayed calm and he didn’t have to use up too much energy.

Q refused to show relief a moment later when a bottle was passed around him and right into his hand a moment later. “I think I could be bothered,” was the relatively innocent reply, quite ruined by how pleased with himself 007 sounded.  The words curled hotly around the shell of Q’s ear, counter to the steam, matching the low and smoke-edged tone.  The hand on Q’s left arm (the other having dropped away when passing things) flexed a bit, and Q glanced over when he felt a calloused thumb rub absently up and down the side of his upper arm.  “Anything else?”

“Yes.  Don’t let me fall asleep,” Q requested sincerely, having to work a bit to ignore the innuendo laced like honey in 007’s tone. He shifted until his wet hair was out of the water, and the agent moved with him as smoothly as if this were a dance, their bodies brushing in a few places and leaving Q’s skin tingling. “I have fallen asleep standing before, and that combined with a gimp leg would lead to trouble, I would think,” he added as he began to work the soap into his hair, ignoring how surreal this all was, how strange it was to have 007 with him in the shower, big as a lion at his back. 

007 was fairly close at the moment, and Q’s arched shoulder-blades just touched his chest as the Quartermaster got the shampoo into a lather.  The agent shifted, body alert and mind aware, and his hands rested lightly on Q’s waist now that he’d lifted his arms to wash his hair.  “Understood,” the man murmured, obedient enough, at least by double-oh standards.  The small kiss he bent down to press into one of Q’s shoulders seemed entirely absentminded. “That sounds like an awful habit for a man who works with explosives as part of his job.”

“Falling asleep on my feet is not the same as falling asleep with my hands deep inside dangerous devices,” Q argued, ruining it with a yawn before he leaned forward just enough to rinse the suds out of his hair.  A moment later he tried and failed to ignore another soft press of warm lips, this time between his neck and shoulder, as lazy and hot as a summer day.  “What are you doing, 007?”

Perhaps it was because Q asked the question in a tone that was more tired and resigned than irritated, but the agent barely twitched, a mass of muscles flexing leisurely at Q’s back. Instead of being offended or put off, the agent said in a husky voice that blended with the sound of the shower spray hitting them both, “Maybe I figured that after being shot by me, you deserved some compensation.”  The blond head lifted, but only enough to bite at the Quartermaster’s ear. “What?” was the softly challenging question, wrapped up in the sound of sex, “You don’t approve?”

Q would have to have been dead a week not to approve – 007 had skills in situations like this that went beyond his incredibly handsome appearance, and Q was tilting his head to the side without realizing it.  Bond growled with soft, possessive approval right against his throat before scraping his teeth there, too.  His hands were remaining on Q’s sides, however, almost forgotten as they rested idly against the pale skin above the smaller man’s hipbone.  For all that Bond was working his way under Q’s skin with his mouth and his words, his hands only ever moved if they thought Q was putting too much weight on his untrustworthy leg – and then scarred palms would rise either to cup Q’s elbow or to push at his ribcage slightly, subtly and wordlessly urging him to shift his weight to the other foot.  It was such a dichotomy that Q wondered, for a dazed and fatigued moment, if he was seeing signs of two people.     

Usually all Q could see was a laughing, smiling monster – omnipresent, never sleeping, dangerous and ready - and Q wondered suddenly if Bond ever turned that ‘off’.  “Bond?”

“Yes?”  The smirk was omnipresent, evident in the curious answer.  Replete in the knowledge that he’d wormed his way far enough into Q’s good graces not to get punched, the agent pressed his mouth against the hollow under Q’s ear – a teasing press of lips that offered no relief. 

Q took in a deep breath as water fell across his shoulder and onto the 00-agent close behind him - comfortable yet dangerous.  He depended on the former descriptive term as the question fell out of his mouth, “Do you ever turn 007 off, and just let James Bond breathe?” It was a question that had been burning in his mind possibly since they’d met, but he’d never been tired or idiotic enough to ask.

For a moment, James froze at his back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (~.*) Oh, look, I wrote a shower scene...fancy that. And a cliffhanger. *innocent face* I wonder how that happened...?


	11. A Fool to Expect Otherwise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond answers Q's question, and then domestic scenes ensue. 
> 
> If 'domestic' included a 00-agent with various dangerous habits, and another attempted kidnapping. 
> 
> Did I say 'attempted'...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty proud of this chapter! Also, if you haven't noticed, I've got another fic up - this one is a cowrite, but at least it's in a near-complete stage (meaning regular updates, yaaaa!) It's fun, angsty, hilarious, and I'd recommend it even if I didn't have a hand in writing it :) 'Let the Sky Fall' is the title.

~^~

There was a long moment of absolute stillness that was usually only associated with abrupt death or inexplicable halts in time, but then 007 seemed to restart, and answered as smoothly as ever, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Q.”

Q waited for more of a response, more signs of Bond being unsettled by his own actions and/or feelings, but when nothing came, the wearied Quartermaster sighed into the hot-water fog, “Maybe you don’t. I think you _do_ , but maybe you don’t.”  To that 007 made no comment except for pressing a damp, fire-edged kiss to the back of his Quartermaster’s neck then backing off as if he’d forgotten that he’d even done that.

The next fifteen minutes were categorized by utter exhaustion and probably a certain amount of mental disconnection on Q’s part.  Even if Bond had deigned to answer more extensively, the Quartermaster wouldn’t have been in a position to respond for much longer, because his previous lack of sleep combined with the adrenalin rush of being shot after almost being kidnapped served to nearly put him to sleep on his feet.  It actually turned out that he _needed_ someone in the shower with him to make sure he didn’t make an abrupt acquaintance with the floor, but he’d fortunately gone far past the point of being embarrassed about anything.

To say that Bond was an utter gentleman this whole time would be a bit of a lie – more than a bit. Whenever Q slipped or hinted at losing his balance, he’d find a muscular arm wrapped around his middle (hot muscle and dependable bone against the flat planes of his torso), or calloused hands curling flush to the wet skin of his forearms and not letting go for long minutes.  True, it kept Q upright, but 007 seemed to revel subtly in the physical contact, and sometimes his hand would just graze Q’s flank, the movement sensual but somehow casual, as if this were just another way that the agent liked to talk when the silence got too deep.  Q had ceased to care about Bond’s many complicated ways of interacting when he wasn’t actively trying to kill or seduce people, and just sighed as he felt Bond thumbing absently at his ribs.

It was all so intimate and yet so unintentional, two men naked in the same shower and yet neither of them hard or making any attempts to further the situation.  There was a lot of skin touching – every time Bond balanced them both and crooked an arm around Q’s chest, the Quartermaster felt every inch of the agent’s honed, muscular frame against his back – but Q happened to know that 007 could do an awful lot more with that skin than he was presently, and Q was wordlessly grateful that he wasn’t.  Q had days when his traitorous brain thought about what sex with the great James Bond would be like, but those days didn’t include exhaustion and bullet-wounds. James Bond was doubtlessly a great lay, but not a safe one, not even to someone at the top of his or her game. Not willing to tempt fate in either case, Q focused on washing up and didn’t touch back, instead setting his mind on staying awake and bipedal while strong, capable hands continued to drift like smoke up his ribs, parallel to his hipbone, and sometimes in a slow caress down to his outer thigh, so as to just ride the upper edges of the water-proof wrap.

Bond should have washed up, too – his day had presumably been a full one as well, even if it had included slightly different things and a long period of time in which he was unaccounted for. If there was anything that was universally known about 007, it was that he had a skill at disappearing off the grid that he put into practice quite often.  Sometimes he returned from those outings with international mayhem on his heels – sometimes he returned and interrupted attempted kidnappings of MI6 employees.  Right now, Bond smelled of gun-oil and sweat, a scent of deadly skill and worked muscle, just barely distinguishable to Q’s nose even at close range because the steady cascade of the shower was determined to brush everything away.  As soon as Q was done, however, a muscular arm reached past him and turned off the water, both hands returning to the Quartermaster’s shoulders to more or less chivvy him out of the shower.  As soon as Q’s feet were on the bathmat, 007 slipped past him with easy skill, just far enough to grab a towel without ever completely breaking physical contact.

But of course the man couldn’t just let things sit.  Calmness didn’t become him. “Still enjoying my good behavior, Quartermaster?” came the teasing question, brushed up against Q’s ear along with warm lips, both the touch and the tone fissured with amusement. The throaty pitch was almost too low to be distinguished from a purr, and Q felt an involuntary shiver skate down his spine and distract him momentarily from the ache in his leg.  In fact, he was so focused on the hot breath curling like velvet around the soft, damp skin beneath his ear that he didn’t even notice when 007 dumped the towel on him.  It spilled over his startled shoulders like a cape. 

“Your good behavior,” he got his brains back together enough to reproach, “looks suspiciously similar to your bad behavior.”  Finding the sink and shuffling over enough to lean on it, Q began drying himself off while also – because he may as well – applauding the dubious behavior that _had_ worked out well for him. “Thank you, however, for saving me from an untimely end in the shower.”

“No problem.”  There was still a smile lurking there, and Q resisted the urge to huddle in the towel entirely, because he suspected that the agent was ogling him. 007’s voice had that same appreciative amusement it had when he was sizing up a mark.  As if he hadn’t had ample opportunity for eying Q already… Before the Quartermaster could decide whether to find his glasses and glare or flush to his ears, the general shape of 007 turned, padding out of the bathroom with the easy step of a man who knew what he wanted and it was apparently in another room.

“Shit…”  Images of the man wreaking havoc in his house (while naked and while Q was likewise but also quite incapable of keeping tabs on him) flitted through Q’s mind, and it was fortunate that he was too drained to be properly panicked.  Merely feeling mildly disturbed by the athletic man’s abrupt departure, Q wrapped the towel around his waist and found his glasses – he put them on only in time to see 007 coming back, as self-assured as always.

And still quite naked.

It was an involuntary reaction and one that no one – unless they had the libido of a grape – could have resisted, Q told himself, as his eyes skated up and down 007’s figure, ending rather embarrassingly on the man’s smirking face.  Bond held out a pile of clothes neatly folded over one hand. “Need help dressing?” he asked in the way that only someone totally at home in their own skin could. He folded brawny arms and leaned against the doorframe, and now that he had his glasses, Q had to fight not to watch the play of muscles as they flexed and relaxed up and down the hard planes of his chest, stomach, and thighs. 

Ohhh, this was going to be a long evening. Q squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and tried to find the tailing ends of his sanity, as they seemed to be doing their best to skitter away from him with every moment 007 spent with him.

“I think I’ll manage,” the Quartermaster somehow succeeded in keeping up the unaffected façade, even though it was getting harder and harder by the minute.  The sneaking suspicion was entering his mind that 007 was doing at least some of this on purpose, because he could easily see that Q wasn’t at full capacity mentally, and therefore had little hope of hiding any of his responses.

But what exactly made him think that Q ever hid anything at all?  So far as he could recall, Q had been an open book, but apparently explaining that to a 00-agent was a lost cause. 

Q actually did end up dressed again without assistance or injury, although he was a bit disturbed by how quickly and easily Bond had found his sleeping attire when the man hadn’t been in Q’s room before…at least to Q’s knowledge.  That suddenly seemed up for debate.  007 himself didn’t see any need, obviously, to get dressed, but had the decency to eventually wrap a towel around his waist while he continued to wander around.  His general, disinterested strides continuously brought him back into range with Q, however, so that even once the Quartermaster was using his crutch again, he never thought for a second that 007 would let him fall.  It was comforting, in an odd way, and in a way that it honestly should not have been: anyone in MI6 could have (and _had_ ) told Q that there was nothing safe about 007, and you’d be smarter trusting your life to a grizzly bear than to him.  However, having shot his Quartermaster, Bond apparently felt compelled to babysit him, and Q was quite all right with that.

007 disappeared into the shower only once Q had dropped into bed, leading the younger man to make an educated guess that this was all more signs of 00-agent-typical wariness. Despite the fact that Q was presently about as dangerous a lame hamster, it made an odd sort of sense that Bond wouldn’t let his guard down until any and all threats were off the table. Which, apparently, they were, just as soon as Q had flopped onto his covers in a nearly unconscious state. Q had floated back up to consciousness just enough to hear the water running, and to lazily imagine the image of 007 naked in his shower again.  He promised himself with a hazy smile to give the image the attention it deserved, but slipped into sleep again before he could. 

He’d wake up later and realize that he honestly should have been less enamored and more worried.

~^~

“How long have you been trying to hack into my laptop?”

“Ever since I realized I wanted to email someone,” was the frank answer, as Bond continued to lean over Q’s computer on the coffee table, an annoyed expression on his face but no shame.

Q lifted up his phone, which had what looked like a warning text on it.  “4 AM. You wanted to send an email at 4 AM.” It was now 7 AM, but only because Q had slept through that alert and six subsequent others. 

Bond finally deigned to look over his shoulder to where Q stood behind the couch, and his brows drew together as he eyed the phone.  Only now did he look as if he was caught red-handed, or perhaps as if he considered the phone a traitor. “You have alerts on your phone for when someone tries to log into your laptop?”

Sighing at 007’s inability to feel guilt like a normal person, Q and his crutch maneuvered around the couch to drop clumsily onto the half Bond wasn’t occupying, while reaching out to pull his laptop to safety.  “No,” he explained patiently, “I have alerts on my phone for when someone is trying to _break into_ my laptop – which is what someone does when they don’t know the password, which is anyone but me.”  Then Q’s eyes widened slightly, and he hit a few keys. “You made it past the external password!”

Apparently giving up on getting hold of Q’s computer again, Bond leaned back in his seat, stretching out a few kinks with an arch of his back and a soft groan.  He left the computer he’d been attacking in Q’s lap. Apparently Bond had been leaned over Q’s laptop for the better part of three hours, so it was to be expected that he was stiff, but he didn’t seem too put out.  “Of course I did.  Didn’t you hear my little speech about your choice of passwords before?”

“Yes,” Q continued to be perplexed, impressed, and highly disturbed.  Thankfully, Q’s computer had layers upon layers of protection, and knowing one password hardly allowed a person any kind of access.  “But I changed it.”

“Which was the whole point of my saying that.”  When Q shot him a startled sort of glare, Bond met his gaze with an easy, unrepentant look and shrugged with one shoulder, “I couldn’t guess the old one, but when people scramble to come up with new passwords quickly, they make mistakes.”

“How does one ‘make mistakes’ when creating passwords designed specifically to keep you out?” Q demanded in a voice heading slowly into menacing even as his expression got flat.

Bond just grinned, because ‘menacing’ was his cup of tea.  “By not realizing that I’m watching when you do.”

Well, that made a horrid amount of sense. Q blinked, thinking about when 007 had been in the country and when he’d switched his passwords…both pieces of information lined up to show that Bond’s timing was rather impeccable, and his ability to spy on a person was exactly what Q should have expected. With a gusty sigh, Q gave up, and made a mental note to slip a tracking device into Bond’s food at the next opportunity so he could avoid the man better in the future.  He made another mental note not to let a trained manipulator goad him into changing his passwords either. 

Suddenly Q realized something, and his head lifted.  “Couldn’t you have just emailed from your phone?”

Bond immediately affected a look of pleasant surprise, the kind that was so fake that Q felt he could reach out and pull the mask right off 007’s cheeky face.  “Why, you’re quite right, Quartermaster.  How could I have forgotten that?”

“Liar,” Q accused flatly. 

In response, Bond’s smile froze a bit, subtly slipping from something innocent to something quite the opposite – far too worldly and lacking anything that might have ever resembled innocence.  “And you’re a fool if you expect otherwise,” he said calmly and without rancor.

A very uncomfortable silence filled the air for a full minute after that, the two men eyeing each other like two fighters afraid to make the first move.  Q reflected that Bond’s line was utterly true, but then, what did that say about his answer in the shower?  Finally, Q gave up, closing his eyes and looking away.  “It’s too early for this,” he moaned in exasperation, running fingers back through his hair before swiftly closing his laptop again. With his laptop under one arm and his crutch still under the other, he retreated back into his room again, shutting the door and even locking it for appearance’s sake (he knew that Bond could pick it any time he wanted, so it was mostly for show).  “Don’t destroy anything,” he left 007 with, as if that were a totally normal thing to say to a houseguest. 

~^~

Q went back to sleep until well after noon with no more disturbances, and woke up to find brunch waiting for him. Bond must have made it, but the man himself was pacing the living room like a large cat in a small cage, talking on his phone.  Q felt a momentary flicker of curiosity about what the man was talking about, and then self-preservation kicked in, and he turned to the kitchen table instead. Eavesdropping (not something Q was particularly good at to begin with) on an MI6 agent was foolishness at its finest, and Q was quite happy with all of his limbs intact. Besides, 007 was a stunningly good cook, and the omelets still looked warm. 

Bond stayed on the phone. He wasn’t always talking, but he apparently hadn’t been lying about emailing, because he was constantly typing and sending things, his expression flat and cool and as unreadable as the sea. Q had no idea what he was doing or checking up on, but the man was as focused as he’d ever seen him, and the fact that he wasn’t making Q’s life a living hell was a plus, too. Shrugging and focusing on eating a delicious, late lunch (or a very, very late breakfast, he wasn’t sure how to categorize this, and didn’t care), Q gave up on figuring that out so long as it didn’t look like 007 was causing mayhem.

The man actually seemed set on ignoring Q for the rest of the day.  However, Q’s injury continued to make him slightly unsteady on his feet, and Bond was still charged with the job of watching him – so interaction was inevitable. Q’s habit of trusting his crutch too much led twice to nearly tripping, and whenever he found himself trying to do something best done with two steady legs, 007 materialized like magic, doing it for him.  007 would drift off again immediately after, making Q cock an eyebrow at him suspiciously, but the blond-haired agent never went far.  It actually took awhile for Q to connect the dots and realize, to his never-ending surprise, that this was 007’s reaction to being accused of having feelings – _again_.  The man may or may not have been a diagnosed sociopath, but he definitely was emotionally deficient, and Q was now sure that avoidance was Bond’s knee-jerk reaction to being faced by certain uncomfortable questions.  Q wanted to snort in laughter, but he knew that fidgety agents weren’t safe things to mess with, so he left 007 alone. 

Testing out his theory – because that was what one did with a hypothesis, was it not? – Q imposed upon Bond’s solitude, finding excuses to get close to him.  It wasn’t hard.  This was _Q’s_ flat, after all, and he lived here, not Bond.  It wasn’t exactly spacious, either, so it was natural that people would pass by one another, especially if one of those people was a temporarily disabled boffin who was used to ambling around his home anyway.  Well aware that he was doing the human equivalent to biting at a tiger’s tail, Q reached past Bond while the man was cooking supper, reaching for a mug in the cupboard while trying not to overbalance with his crutch.

Almost automatically – 007’s eyes never even leaving the skillet where he was adding soy sauce to rice – Bond reached out a hand and rested it on Q’s hip, steadying him, grasp firm and as natural as breathing.  Q, of course, nearly stopped breathing, as he often did when 007 did something unconsciously familiar, but at least he didn’t fall on the hot stove.  “Trouble there, Q?”

007’s damned hand was still on Q’s waist, scarred fingers molding naturally to the ridge of his hipbone. It slipped away before Q could be caught staring at it, or 007 could be bothered to notice what he was doing. The agent seemed comfortable and contented with cooking, and Q narrowed his eyes for a moment as he realized that, one way or another, he’d been relegated to a part of 007’s mind that was almost entirely reflexive but separate from his fight-or-flight response. Q wasn’t sure if that was the same thing as being trusted…but he also wasn’t sure if Bond was capable of anything resembling trust to begin with. 

“Fine.  Lost my bloody balance for a tick there.  Care for tea?” Q salvaged his pride quickly, lifting his mug in suggestion. 

Time passed that way: Bond being as standoffish as could be when he wasn’t being frustratingly and randomly free with his hands, spending his time either being disturbingly helpful or ignoring Q entirely in favor of typing on his phone.  After 007 actually stepped out to take his third call of the evening, Q finally couldn’t contain his curiosity, and looked up from his laptop the moment Bond strolled back into the flat.  “What in blazes has your attention so fixed, 007?” he asked with polite curiosity.

He got a dangerous grin flashed his way for his troubles.  “Really, Q? Asking a 00-agent what they’re up to? Are you sure you want to know?”

“I figure that it’s safest that I do,” Q placidly replied, pushing his glasses up on his nose so that he wasn’t looking over the lenses when he glanced at the agent closing the distance between them with a lazy, self-assured stride, “Plus, anything that can keep your attention for more than five minutes warrants further analysis. Perhaps if I incorporated what I learned into some of the tech I sent with you, you’d lose less of it.”

Clearly grudgingly amused, 007 looked as though he was going to just walk right past Q, but instead circled around behind the couch.  Bond was built to be disconcerting, and Q hid an involuntary little shiver that he was very nearly getting _used to_ as the agent leaned his forearms against the back of the couch a bare hand’s-width from Q’s left shoulder.  “You really want to know?” Bond asked, cold blue eyes alit with interest as his blonde head tilted Q’s way.  The Quartermaster wasn’t even surprised when 007 rotated one wrist, a seamlessly aimless flexing of a stiff joint that nonetheless brought the back of his hand brushing up against Q’s arm in a slow stroke.  Bond’s natural body-heat easily sank through the thin layer of cloth even from the slight contact.

Q held back another little shiver and forced his attention to his computer screen, where he was doing his level best not to be caught doing work while on medical leave.  “Depends.  Is this one of those ‘If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you' moments?  Because I’ve filled my quota for life-or-death situations, I’m afraid.”

“Not much of a quota,” 007 reflected, too many edges always in his voice, like something beautiful edged in a fine sea of glass – always dangerous to approach. 

The smaller man managed it, though, if only because he was quickly becoming proficient at dealing with MI6’s most troublesome agent.  He leaned a bit closer to his screen to fix a line of code.  “Not a 00-agent,” he reminded, “It’s my job to keep you alive and annoying.  The death bit I leave up to you.”

A snort and a chuckle greeted his frank assessment of basically his entire working arrangement with MI6, and there was that hand again, this time just the back of two scarred knuckles making contact with the crisp edge of the button-down shirt Q had finally changed into some hours ago.  The agent’s actual attention, of course, was on his phone, a frostily indifferent look on his face as he flicked over whatever had just appeared on the screen. “Fine,” he said abruptly, and Q tensed warily because he couldn’t tell whether this was Bond’s amused voice or his ‘I’m going to possibly make World War III and stuff you into the middle of it for kicks’ voice.  “I’ve been trying to find out who might have put out a ‘Wanted’ poster for MI6’s Quartermaster.” Q’s face showed his surprise as he stopped typing and turned fully to face Bond now, because that was not the answer he’d been expecting.  “The answer to that question has been pathetically easy to find.”

“Who?” Q found himself asking as his mind flicked back to the subway – and then, even further, to the inexplicable mugging right on his doorstep.  His arm still ached from time to time, and he resisted the urge to touch his elbow where hand-shaped bruises were already fading to an ugly yellow.

The answer was not reassuring, although at least 007 said it as if he were simply reading off some mundane piece of news from the local paper.  “Just about everyone. Congratulations, Quartermaster: you just became more popular than the Queen of England in a matter of weeks.” He pushed off the back of the couch to continue messaging and typing up emails to contacts, leaving Q feeling as if he’d just been poleaxed, laptop forgotten so that it slipped off his uninjured leg onto the cushion next to him. 

“You’re shitting me,” he finally said, rather unprofessionally.

Bond favored him with his mouth just tipping up at the edges, the expression not softening the more rugged edges of his features, and also not quite making it into the realm of humor. “No, Q.  Thanks to MI5’s loose lips, I wager, word of your magical, data-stealing thumbdrive has spread far and wide.  Are you flattered?”

Q didn’t even bother responding to the intentional barb at the end, because he saw it for what it was: a typical 007 reflex.  Bond baited anyone who got within range of him.  “Have you informed M?”

“No?”

“Wrong answer,” Q pointed a threatening finger at him, which was probably only about as intimidating as if he’d thrown a pencil at a tank, but he righted his computer and turned back to it before he could see 007 cross his arms and give him a look. “Never mind, I’ll email her myself. Where did you learn all of this?”

“Here and there,” was the purposefully vague answer. 

Q sighed, lamenting whatever quality he had that had somehow made him 007’s favorite – or had at least gotten him stuck in this whole messed-up situation that included being shot by coworkers and being on every criminal’s most-wanted list.  “Forget I asked,” he drawled dryly as he began typing again.

~^~

In the end, trouble came because the refrigerator had been fairly sparse to begin with, and it didn’t fill itself. 

“I’ll go grab groceries,” 007 said, a shockingly benign phrase for a man trained to kill.  He was already grabbing his car keys and absently checking the time on his watch, somehow managing to look enticing while doing it, his movements exuding a natural confidence that matched his impeccable dress and handsome features.  “You stay here and try not to get into trouble.”

“You say that like I’m the troublesome one,” Q leaned out of the kitchen to point out.  It was his third day on medical leave, and while he could walk without a crutch, he was getting stir-crazy.  Now, his anxiety from being away from work for so long had manifested in an irked little frown that he was throwing Bond’s way like a dart. “You can hardly leave MI6 without breaking laws.”

Bond smiled, blue eyes flashing. “Why, Quartermaster, you say the nicest things.”

“And you’re an incorrigible cad. Look, I’m saying nicer things by the minute.”

Smile actually deepening, but taking on an unreadable edge even while he laughed low in his throat, 007 tossed his keys up and caught them without looking.  “Stroppy,” was his only comment, before turning on a heel and exiting out the front door. 

Q stared (perhaps glared, if he were being truthful) after the man for a bit, still mostly in the kitchen eating the last piece of cheese in the whole house, finally murmuring in a slightly miffed undertone, “I’m not stroppy, I’m _underworked_. I haven’t been this bored since I was six and stuck at my aunt’s with no internet.”  He nibbled at the cheese and limped back to his perch on the couch, where his laptop awaited.  “What’s the point of naming me Quartermaster if you ban me from my branch?” he continued to grumble to himself, perhaps disproportionately mad at Medical and M herself for keeping him on forced vacation for so long.  “One bullet wound and everyone loses their minds…!”  There was a rattle at the door.  Q yelled over his shoulder without turning around, “If you’ve locked yourself out, Bond, you’ve bloody well proven that you can pick the lock! Sorry that I’m too _stroppy_ to bloody let you in!”  His voice was remarkably cheery despite the fact that he was willfully taunting a 00-agent known for his unpredictable temper and nasty tendency to put bullets in things.  This was just what happened when Quartermasters were kept away from their natural habitats. 

The timing was wrong, though. Bond should have been blocks away by now, especially with the way he drove, and instead of the sound of the lock being tried, there was a distant _bang_ of some variety, a split second before everything electronic in the house abruptly lost power.  Q’s head jerked up, his swift brain immediately cataloguing the probability of an EMP device going off in the vicinity, and then someone was trying the door in earnest, and it wasn’t 007. 

It had to have been an EMP – distant enough that the blast had been remote, but near enough that Q’s phone was dead when he grabbed for it.  His laptop had likewise gone dark, and the Quartermaster swore vehemently to himself even as he swiftly moved further into the house, limp nearly forgotten as he put distance between himself and the door.  Since 007 had started regularly breaking in, Q had considered putting more lethal measures up to secure his abode, but had always hesitated to do something that might actually injure the agent – still, his security was on a level that nothing short of a determined and genius 00-agent could surpass, and if the power had been up, Q wouldn’t have worried. 

Now, he went right past worried into full-on alarm. 

Either someone else could pick a door-lock nearly as fast as Bond could, or they’d brought something else to help them get inside without loudly kicking the whole door down. Q just made it into his bedroom to slam the door when he heard footsteps pounding into his house. At the last second, his bad leg failed him – _damn_ Bond for shooting him anyway – so that he slewed around and nearly fell when he turned to throw the lock on his bedroom door.  That little slip cost him seconds at most, but something heavy was shouldering his door open before the Quartermaster got a second chance.  As he told his agents on missions, Q gave up on that avenue instantly, and turned his stumbling into a crashing dive across the floor, which hurt like hell as he crashed up against his dresser, but allowed him to reach into the waiting drawer in a rabbit-fast heartbeat. 

There were at least two men – already in the room with him.  Q shot the first with his Taser, too much in shock to be properly gratified as the man fell to the ground with an animal yell and spasming limbs.  In fact, all Q had time for was one grim look before the second intruder was stepping over the jerking body of the first and coming in hard and fast.  There wasn’t time to think of a second plan. 

Still sitting on the floor, Q discarded his weapon, having already used it with no time to reload – instead, he lashed out with his good leg in a kick that nearly downed the second man. The problem was, apparently whoever was after him this time had learned from his or her predecessors: small numbers did not capture a Quartermaster.  A third man of muscular proportions circled in, and Q found himself pinned between his dresser, the bed, and two attackers who were both larger than him.

Q very nearly was faster. He’d unbalanced one with his kick, and immediately lunged for the opening, only to feel as if the world crashed down on the back of his skull. 

As the world flickered in and out, the wood of his floor making cold seep into his temple and cheek, Q reflected that ‘the world’ had actually been a fist.  Most likely.  He also made a dazed mental note to make himself a personal Taser that would fire multiple (if not simultaneous) rounds, so that he could avoid situations like these. That thought was the last flickering of a fading light-bulb, however, and Q’s brain shut down as heavy boots – three sets, as the man he’d electrocuted recovered clumsily – walked up to him, circling around the limp shape of the Quartermaster they’d finally caught.

~^~

Gunshots broke the quiet with surprisingly little warning, coming with such expedient precision that they almost seemed like imagined noises, until there was the sound of shattering glass and a scream from one of the vehicles that had pulled up in front of Q’s flat. A second foreign vehicle was incapacitated before 007 moved efficiently and swiftly up the steps and into Q’s flat, moving like an armed and deadly wave. 

He shot the first stranger he next saw without even losing a step.

“Stop right there, agent!” someone else yelled, guessing correctly in regards to exactly what he was facing – although labeling 007 an agent was as vague as looking up at the sky and saying ‘overcast.’ They didn’t know they had a thunderstorm in a bottle.  “You budge one muscle, and you might regret it.”

The scene was simple, taken in by quick blue eyes that were trained to take things apart and piece them back together as a grid of targets and obstacles – things to shoot and things to avoid. He’d only left dead men outside, and the one he’d shot expediently upon entering, but two men remained, one just out of range behind the doorframe to Q’s bedroom but already leveling a gun around the corner.  More in the immediate area was another target, but 007’s face tightened and his shoulders gave a spasmodic jerk – his machine-cold control shattering for just a second before realigning as he saw Q, out cold on the floor with the second intruder aiming a gun at his head. 

007’s face was a cold as winter again, detached and aloof.  After that first twitch, there was nothing to show hesitancy, and he was clearly measuring up how easy it would be to kill at least one more man before someone else fired a shot – and, perhaps, killed the Quartermaster, but Bond’s face didn’t show anything but callous disregard for that.  He met Man #2’s eyes unflinchingly, as if the man’s words hadn’t even registered on his radar.  Without warning, 007 pivoted to aim a shot at Man #1, the idiot who thought he could hide in the shadow of the doorway and line up a shot with Bond’s skull. Bond missed, his own bullet just spooking the man backwards, but Man #2 took the opportunity to fire a shot dangerously close to Q’s head, into the floor. 

Now 007 froze, all tensed muscle and poised deadliness – but on a taut leash. 

“Apparently your hearing isn’t very good,” Man #2 said, jaw clenched to perhaps hide his own unease. Bond’s eyes were almost too cold to meet; looking at them was like sticking your hands in liquid nitrogen, freezing to the core.  “Let me be clearer: drop your gun, or my next bullet goes right through his glasses and into his eye.”

For a long second, Bond didn’t budge, although he didn’t make any move to fire again.  Finally, he said, voice low and even despite the circumstances, “How do I know you won’t just shoot him anyway?”

Man #2 smirked.  “Because I want him alive for what’s in that head of his.”

Bond tipped his head, as if to say, ‘ _Fair enough_.’ Out loud, he pressed reasonably and still unflappably, “And how do I know you won’t just shoot me?”

“How about leverage? Does that sound good?” said his opponent flippantly now that he knew he had the agent over a barrel. The fact that 007 smiled coolly back should have told him he was wrong.  “To be honest, I’d love to have some way to keep your friend in line as we go for a little drive, so if you come quietly, maybe everyone will get along, yeah? We just have a few things to discuss – no need for theatrics.”

After a moment of seeming to consider this offer – all the while, his muscles never loosened, never lost their perfect readiness, their lethal anticipation of killing – Bond made a little hum of acceptance.  His eyes flicked inadvertently to Q then, once again, and something flickered like a bolt of lightning in the blue depths. There and gone again, a burst of light and unfathomable heat.  Then the agent slowly removed one hand from his gun, lifting it away slowly, and then lowered the weapon to the floor with the other.  He acquiesced when ordered to kick it over, if only because Man #2’s weapon had lowered so that it was aimed at the center of Q’s chest, an easy target to hit where it could do a lot of damage on short notice.

“I assume we’ll be taking my car then,” Bond said as pleasantly as a serpent, standing at ease and knowing that he’d left two wrecked cars and just as many dead drivers in his wake.

~^~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to CONN14 for that little line about 'alive and annoying' ;) I'm a magpie-writer, and often have to ask commenters if I can use their words, because I couldn't have come up with something better myself!  
> Also, another million thanks for my beta, for catching some truly lamentable mistakes (and leaving comments that made me grin in between)
> 
> Life is still crazy where I am, so updates will not be regular - but I'll do my best!


	12. Always Chaos Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of a kidnapping. In other words, 007 shows his extreme displeasure (and boredom) towards hostage situations, and things get a bit chaotic...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long absence! School continued to hold my free time hostage XP I'm still trying to finish up 'Leash', too, with little success...

Q woke up slowly, and by chance, surprisingly more gently than he usually did.  Under normal circumstances, he blinked owlishly a few times and then tried to bury away from the nearest source of sunlight, but this time for some unknown reason – instinct, most likely – his eyes merely opened to hazy, imperceptible slits while the rest of his brain slowly came online like a computer booting laboriously up.  The headache raging between his temples shocked his memory back into alertness, and that was about when everything came into focus, from the vibrations of a car around him and the constriction of a seatbelt across his chest, to the almost-familiar smell of cloth and leather.

Daring to open his eyes just a crack more, realizing that his return to consciousness hadn’t been noticed yet, Q realized that he was in the back left seat of a car with – if he was not mistaken – 007’s coat thrown over him.  That had Q’s eyes jerking upwards and forwards as if magnetized, only to meet serene, glacial blue eyes already looking back at him in the rearview mirror. Unsure whether to be horrified that Bond was here, or horrified that he had angled the mirror somewhere other than at the road like a sensible driver, Q just stared and tried to put everything together with his head still a bit fuzzy.  On some level, he then realized that two more men were in the car (one in front beside Bond, and one in the back next to Q), and that his hands were zip-tied together beneath the covering of 007’s jacket. 

“Did you have a nice nap, Q?” Bond asked quite glibly before the Quartermaster had time to decide whether or not to try something valiantly stupid, or impulsively brash, before anyone noticed that he was conscious.  Feeling a bit like an owl shoved out into direct sunlight by 007’s betraying words, Q hunkered back against the doorframe a bit as the kidnapper next to him immediately turned with a startled frown.  The man in front, fortunately for him, didn’t take his attention away from 007 – if he had, Q was rather certain the agent would have taken advantage of the situation and killed him on the spot. 

Still off-balance but growing rapidly less disoriented, Q took in a subtle, steadying breath through his nose, casting a quick eye around and feeling a rush of unease as he recognized nothing of their surroundings – they appeared to be in some suburban area, heading towards less populated locations.  That was not promising.  “Quite nice,” the Quartermaster nonetheless responded in kind, ignoring the gun he could clearly see aimed at him now in the back seat, “Although the headache I’ve got is rather less than enjoyable.”  He made an effort to appear cool and unimpressed (a look he’d had a lot more practice with since being stuck with 007 so often) as he glanced around the interior of the car and its occupants.  “If I’m not mistaken, I think I’ve missed quite a lot.  For starters, isn’t this _your_ car?”

007’s thin smile was a deadly thing to see reflected in the mirror as he continued to drive as calmly as if this were a family outing – although he doubtlessly had a gun aimed at him as well. “You originally had a few more kidnappers, too,” he murmured with ruthless, unquenchable pride.

“Enough chatting,” the man next to Q commanded in an edged voice.  He was middle-aged, large but not fat, but also clearly not as toned as the agents Q was used to working with – men like 007 were finely honed weapons, but most likely this man had been crafted by more blunt, brutal hands through a life of crime. Still dangerous, however. He thought that this was the man who’d ultimately knocked him unconscious, a blow that made Q wince just thinking about, but when he instinctively went to raise his hands and feel his throbbing skull, a twitch of the gun told him how bad an idea that would be. Q very carefully went still again, broadcasting his willingness to cooperate. 

Ignoring the command to keep his mouth shut – although his eyes had gotten at least five degrees colder when Q had frozen in the back seat – 007 switched his conversation to include the car at large. “Any chance someone wants to explain what this is all about?  I could use a bit of monologuing.”

While Q resisted the urge to groan and roll his eyes at 007’s spectacularly suicidal tendencies, their captors bristled and took offense.  They were probably away from any decent traffic cameras by now, as the area had grown less populated, so the need to hide their weaponry had decreased – Q could just see the gun of the man next to Bond where its muzzle showed between the seats, aimed at 007’s middle.  The thought of going for that weapon briefly crossed Q’s mind, but then he caught subtle movement, and realized that 007 was shaking his head at him.  Damn the man for reading him so easily anyway… Settling back, smelling gun-oil, blood, and the heavier scent of familiar skin from the coat still draped over him, Q tried to wriggle out of the zip-ties with no luck, although at least his hands were in front of his body. 

The man in the back with Q – he was going to think of him as ‘Fist’ until he had a better moniker to know him by – was watching him with canny suspicion, and spoke next. “Your friend up there has a bit of a loose tongue.”

Q resisted the urge to laugh out loud. He’d seen 007 being tortured for days without saying anything other than ‘Bond.  James Fucking Bond,’ and various other rude lines.  The man didn’t have a loose tongue, he had a steel-trap for a mouth. 

“You might want to tell him to shut it, Quartermaster, before we decide he’s less useful as leverage against you and more desirable as a corpse,” Fist finished menacingly.

The threat suddenly meant less than the information, and Q’s eyes narrowed.  “Clearly you think that I’m the Quartermaster,” he said, careful not to admit to it, “Why?”  ‘ _And what does that make the man up front driving the car_?’

“Don’t bother denying it,” retorted the kidnapper in the front passenger seat – ‘Gun,’ since that was all Q could actually see of him.  His voice sounded angrier, less controlled, which was worrisome because he was seated directly beside 007, and Bond seemed intent on antagonizing everyone. “We’ve got resources – and those resources say that you’re more than just some average tech analyst, and that you’ve developed a little toy that we’d very much like to have.”

After this, M was never, ever going to cooperate with MI5 again.  Usually, the woman ran a tight ship, and it had been a rare show of trust when she’d brought MI5 into the loop.  Considering just how tits-up that had gone, MI5 was going to be shunned for eternity – or at least until the death of MI6’s current boss. 

The fleeting widening of Bond’s eyes warned Q that the man had suddenly realized something.  He couldn’t help but think that it was something bad, because precious little connected to 007 was ever good.  Suddenly canny eyes were flicking to the rearview mirror again, this time catching Fist in his glacial look as well.  “Ask the nice men how they found your house,” Bond suggested suddenly without deviating from his off-hand tone. 

Q’s eyes narrowed. “Surely MI5-” he started to answer instead of asking, but the agent was already continuing smoothly.

“How much you want to bet it was a little bird named _Marcus_?”

Immediately, Q froze, the implications hitting him even as the expressions of their captors gave away that Bond had guessed right – as usual, the man’s deductive skills had hit the nail on the head. The more painful the information, the more easily Bond seemed able to dig his way to it.  “What did you do to Marcus?” Q asked in a flat and flinty voice, forgetting for a moment that it would be best to deny everything. At least he hadn’t been close enough to Marcus to ever tell him anything confidential; it was ultimately that lack of trust that had made the relationship untenable. 

Looking pleased with himself, Fist settled his gun-hand more comfortably across his leg.  “No need to get uppity, Quartermaster, your ex is fine. It was a lucky break that we found him before anyone else did, babbling drunkenly as he was about his shady boyfriend ‘Ethan,’ who worked IT but never told him anything.” Q ground his teeth together, deciding right then to live the life of a hermit, if he survived this. He’d told Marcus practically nothing about his real life, and that ironically had managed to come back and bite him regardless. Although people had to be hunting hard for him indeed if they’d made all of these connections.

“How did you find him?” Q demanded, still bristling.  He didn’t know if he was more worried for Marcus’s sorry state or frustrated with himself for leaving an opening like that.  Bond’s eyes were still unaffected blue chips of glass in the mirror, predictably untouched by this new information.

“People have got ears all over the city looking for information on you, don’t you know?” Gun taunted from up front. “Everyone wants a piece of you, but in MI6, you’re safe.”  He sounded disgruntled, and the gun was visible again, as if subconsciously pointing in 007’s direction in a subliminal pointer towards the biggest portion of MI6’s safety. If 007 was bothered, he didn’t show it. Actually, he was beginning to look worrisomely bored…

Ignoring the warning signs of 007 growing tired of the present game, Q tried to wrap his mind around what he was learning. Already, he knew that these men didn’t plan on letting him and Bond go – not alive, at least. But so long as everyone was hemorrhaging information, he decided to get as much as he could. “So you connected the liquor-soaked complaints of an unhappy man with the Quartermaster of MI6? I’m sorry, but no matter how I look at it, that sounds farfetched,” Q kept his voice controlled, professional calm like a shield all around him.  It wouldn’t stop bullets, of course, but it was doing a good job of keeping panic from his expression.

“Not when you connect that with what we’d learned already by following you,” Fist took the wind out of Q’s sails with a smile. 

“They mean by following your MI5 tails,” Bond grunted, as if unimpressed by the posturing.  It earned him another round of glares that slid off his skin like water off a duck.  “Your face isn’t exactly common knowledge, Q.”

 _‘I’m going to skin you, Bond,’_ Q hoped his glower conveyed, because now there was no questions at all: they’d kidnapped Q, and Q was the Quartermaster.  “Brilliant.  Remind me to request that all of MI5 be fired as soon as we get back,” Q grit out, his calm wearing thin.  “Right after I put you in front of a firing squad.”

“Was that really called for, Quartermaster?”

“ _You’re_ asking _me_ that?!” Q exploded back, leaning forward so suddenly in a spike of temper that the coat slid off, and if Q wasn’t mistaken, 007’s eyes did a quick check of his seatbelt, a second before he thumped his fingertips restlessly on the steering wheel. It was like a nervous tic…except Bond didn’t have any.  Q’s temper was doused as quickly as it had risen up. 

“Quiet, you son of a bitch,” growled Gun up front, whom Q had already pegged as the most easily riled one. By the tiny quirk of a smile that sat like a ghost at the side of Bond’s mouth, he’d realized the same thing.

“Or else what?” Bond retorted as smoothly as a razor parting skin, while Q watched with a nameless sort of dawning fear crawling up his throat.  To anyone who didn’t know him, Bond looked relaxed and at ease, but Q recognized the look from missions…and knew that 007 was about to do something monumentally stupid.  “Or else you’ll stand still while I shoot you like I did your comrades?  I considered gutting them right there in the car-”

“I said _be quiet_!!”

“-But I didn’t have a knife on me.  A bullet is more convenient anyway.” Bond sounded like he was musing on the color of the sky, not relaying all the ways in which he didn’t mind killing someone.  “Not particularly interesting, of course, when your targets aren’t even good enough to see you coming.”

Finally, Fist had had enough as well, his face mottling with increasing patches of furious red as he sat and quivered in the back seat next to Q.  The Quartermaster had stayed utterly silent and still, because a large part of him had been afraid that Fist’s trigger-finger would work faster than his common-sense, and Q would end up getting shot for the second time in a fortnight. Suddenly, though, with a bestial snarl of hatred, Fist swung his gun around so that it joined his partner’s, aiming at 007.  “Do you not have _ears_?!  Shut the fu-!”

He didn’t get any further, because suddenly Bond jerked the wheel while simultaneously twisting in his seat. Q cried out in shock as two gunshots went off almost instantly, but the sudden swerve of the car tore both weapons sideways – as deftly as a choreographed move, a bullet went whistling in front of Bond’s chest and out the side window, while another must have missed his ear, shattering the glass in front.  Before anyone could recover, 007 had the car slamming into a metal guard-rail with an explosion of tortured, twisting steel.  Everything seemed to implode for a second, and chaos reigned.

~^~

It was a few moments before Q came back to himself again.  He hadn’t lost consciousness, he was fairly sure, but the shock had been enough to make his mind fold in on itself for a second, at least until his inner ear told him that everything had stopped moving.  Well, not everything – 007 was already active again, cursing the air-bags and his seat-belt in turn as he fought loose of both.  Rarely did 007 ever bother buckling himself in, but he had this time, and Q wondered how long he’d had this spectacularly brash plan in his head.  Gun hadn’t thought ahead so well: the empty passenger seat and the bloody whole in the windshield spoke for itself.  By Q, Fist was groaning and starting to come around slightly.

Q didn’t even have to say anything. 007 was already free of the confines of his seatbelt, and he twisted around so that he could lean over into the back; he found Fist’s weapon in seconds, although he used it as a club rather than a projectile weapon.  He had enough sense to know that M would probably lecture him about leaving a gunshot victim on a crime scene when he technically didn’t have orders to kill anyone. Still, he looked tempted as he watched the would-be-kidnapper slouch back against his seat again, a bruise already well on its way to forming above his temple.  “You all right, Q?” the agent asked, as he wiped down the gun, absently performing rituals that he’d done hundreds of times before when he was involved in incidents he wasn’t supposed to be in. 

Still dazed and aching where his seat-belt had dug in, Q did a haphazard check of himself, stymied by the zip-ties. “Nothing serious, I think.” He gave himself another look, flicking a bit of glass off his pantleg with a fingertip.  “I’d go so far as to say unscathed, although I’m a bit rattled.”

“Rattled?”  Utterly untroubled even though he’d just purposefully crashed a vehicle while literally dodging bullets at the same time, 007 smirked crookedly at Q’s word-choice.  “Only rattled? I must be growing on you.”

“God, I hope not.” Q tried to fumble with his seat-belt while 007 got out of the car, leaving Fist with his weapon, but only after checking to be sure that the man was out for the count – and possibly permanently brain-damaged.  Q winced, but couldn’t bring up the will to feel all that remorseful.  The two criminals had no doubt had plans to kill both Q and his annoying bodyguard after this ride was finished, or at least after they’d gotten information about the Vas-drive from the Quartermaster. Managing to fight free of his seatbelt even as 007 circled the vehicle to tug open Q’s door, the Quartermaster was just about ready to give the agent a lecture about the importance of aliases.

That was when the first bullet pinged off the metal next to the bumper. 

The shot came from outside (Fist wasn’t waking up any time soon, if ever), ahead of them, and 007 twisted like a cat almost before the sound of the shot registered.  His brows lowered and his expression was as hard and stormy as Q had ever seen it, probably because the agent was unarmed at the moment, his weapon still undiscovered.  Bond was forced away from Q and the car by a second bullet, and the wariness in his eyes settled into something more frigid and hateful than frostbite. Apparently, being thrown from a car hadn’t killed Gun, and Bond wasn’t happy with the newest complication.

Their remaining attacker had been far more injured than 007, which balanced out his armed status somewhat as 007 dove for cover behind the car.  He didn’t need to shout for Q to get down, because the Quartermaster was already doing that, keeping out of range.  From where he was, however, he could still see the remaining kidnapper when the man stood – he looked like a horror movie.  Any bare skin was a mass of lacerations and imbedded chips of glass, blood streaming across his skin and staining his clothing, where more tears revealed more wounds. His first step revealed a grisly limp, the angle of his foot incompatible with a stable, undamaged ankle, but his rictus snarl showed only a vicious, single-minded intent to kill. Behind the car, 007 swore loudly enough that Q heard him, some uncharitable phrase about criminals not learning to just stay down when he put them down. 

Q’s last nerve had finally frayed by the time Gun limp-stalked around the side of the car, hoping to shoot the 00-agent before another weapon could be acquired to even the playing field.

The impact had twisted the entire frame of the car a bit, but Q’s door still popped open with violent suddenness, hard enough that something in Gun’s body crunched obscenely even as he yelped and fell.  Before he could regain himself or bring his bloody arms up to shoot, the Quartermaster – still with both hands zip-tied together and a nasty bruise already showing at the collar of his shirt from his seatbelt – stepped out of the car, Fist’s gun firmly nestled in both hands.  Steadying his aim against the doorframe, Q shot twice, both shots going firmly into his enemy’s chest, and ended the threat. 

Q stared at the motionless body now piled like so much gory flesh on the ground, and for some reason couldn’t bring himself to feel anything but cold, anchorless triumph and a burning sort of disgust.  The hot and cold sensation could also have come purely from adrenalin, which Q had never realized could immolate his system so thoroughly; he was used to designing guns and fixing them, but shooting them was something he did rarely.  Perhaps this was why.  Then Bond was there, as swift and efficient as only he could be.  

The man’s first touch was to Q’s wrist, pushing the gun down and then divesting Q of the weapon in one fell swoop.  Q’s fingers were happy to let the gun go, but still felt cold and directionless without the grip.  It was almost amazing to watch how swiftly Bond checked and disarmed the gun before making it disappear under his jacket (deciding not to put it down this time), once Q tore his eyes away from the man he’d just shot.

Killed.  

“Q.”

Somehow, Q’s answer to that was to look at Bond rather dazedly and point out, “Usually I only hear that tone from you through your earpiece on missions.”

“This _is_ a mission,” 007 argued sensibly.  His tone was still walking that fine line between steady and calm, and steady and absolutely dangerous.  His eyes, too, had gone calculating and cold like those of a falcon, or a winter’s open sky.

Q’s brain still felt as though it was locked up in ice all of a sudden.  He tried to take a deep breath, but found it difficult.  “I…I think I’m in shock,” some distant part of him diagnosed, mechanically forcing the words out of his mouth.

Either Bond filed that away or ignored it altogether; it was always hard to tell with him. He neither commented nor argued, though, but instead gripped Q’s bound wrists in capable hands, and with surprising deftness, had depressed the almost unnoticeable catch in the tiny plastic mechanism – he was removing the zip-ties as if by magic and a quick twist of his hands, sparing an almost unnoticeable moment to run calloused fingertips around the Quartermaster’s wrists.  Checking for damage and swiftly finding none. His eyes checked over the rest of him with similar speed and skill.  “You can walk.  Follow me,” was all he said, and then was moving.  Q numbly affixed himself to the man’s broad shadow, barely realizing he was doing it.

Q didn’t also realize that his brain had shut off until Bond was opening the door to another car – an unknown car – and crowding Q into it, silent and effective.  It was as if a camera shutter had clicked twice, giving two images but leaving a blank space in between.  Bond’s commands, when they came, were to-the-point and unembellished, but even then, Q had a hard time swallowing them as his thoughts tried to tangle up in wordless panic.  If Bond ever became impatient with Q’s stiffness or slowness, it never showed, strangely enough, although if Q didn’t move himself, 007 moved _him_. Normally Q would have been somewhat amused or vexed by that…but normally, he also would have questioned how in the world Bond had stolen them a car that fast.  The engine was humming to life before Q even knew it, and they were moving away from the scene of Q’s…of Q’s kill.  Bond was famous for wading into trouble, but this reminded the younger man that he could escape it just as fast – gone like smoke. This time, the 00-agent was taking someone with him. 

‘ _This is why I don’t go out into the field_ ,’ the Quartermaster reflected numbly, as he tried to slow his racing heart and wipe the image of glass sticking out of incarnadined, ruined skin from his mind’s-eye. His thoughts ceased their attempts to bring order to the situation, instead resigning themselves to a chaotic heap in the Quartermaster’s aching skull.  He suddenly lacked the energy for anything else.

They stopped at one point, but Q still hadn’t thought of anything to say – and therefore hadn’t figured out if his vocal cords worked even if he were to try and speak.  He felt sick.  Bond was unshakable, though, and was easing Q out of the car before any argument could be mounted, his arms strong and sure as they pushed and pulled, guided and gripped. Bond was the epitome of surety, moving like a wave, and the two of them approached an apartment building and Bond produced a key to get them in without hesitation. 

It actually wasn’t until Q was inside the living room that he realized this was James’s flat and not his (unless 007 made a habit of possessing keys to apartments he didn’t own), and by then he was being wordlessly coaxed into a bedroom that didn’t look particularly lived in.  The bed smelled musty but still somehow... comfortable, like something that had been used and appreciated once and neglected only in recent years.  As Q found himself divested of shoes by quick double-o hands, he found himself wondering if that reflected on the bed’s owner at all.  Before he could think much more on it, of course, those same skilled hands were pressing him down onto the bed, shifting and moving him with confident but light tugs and pushes until the Quartermaster was surprisingly well situated upon the unfamiliar mattress.  Q didn’t protest the blanket then drawn over him, instead snugging his body down until the blanket’s edges curled over his ears.  He reached up belatedly to remove his glasses before he bent them, only to encounter another set of fingers – Bond’s, already doing the job.  “Just sleep, Q,” the man said, his tone a little lower and softer than the ‘mission voice’ he’d been using up until now.  Q blinked shortsightedly at him past the blankets, wishing his brain didn’t feel so mired down in spent adrenalin, because there was some part of his mind that was screaming that this was the elusive James, usually hidden beneath the confident and unpredictable 007.  

Bond moved away, but it was only to grab another quilt from somewhere, and Q was glad, because it suddenly felt as though he couldn’t regulate his own body temperature, and the adrenalin had burned him out and left him cold.  He’d never been this scared and shaken before, and therefore had never truly appreciated the aftermath of such a shock.  There was something so viscerally different about killing a man, not through comm-links and computer screens, but from only a meter distance. Q wondered how Bond could stand it, time after time.

He must have asked that out loud, because Bond’s murmur came from somewhere behind him in the room, low and unaffected, “You get used to it after the tenth kill or so, but it depends on the person.  Mostly you just learn to live with it.”  There was silence and then another blanket falling over Q, and this one finally added enough weight that Q felt grounded, his flitting thoughts and shaking limbs now gently pressed down to the bed.  He still shivered a little, but felt a bit less like he’d come apart at the seams as he just curled up where he lay.  

Q had never understood the allure of drugs, and imagined that if coming down from a drug-high was anything like coming down from the adrenalin-high right now, he’d hate it.  He felt hollowed out and shaky, and still too cold to actually go to sleep, even though some part of him longed to give his brain a rest.  The sounds of Bond moving about in the house were a distant buzz barely connected to reality, unable to touch him even though he should have been more unsettled by finding himself in the man’s _flat_ , with Bond now talking about him on the phone.  “You’ll need a clean-up crew … Yes … No, I’ve got the gun.  I wasn’t going to risk some over-eager detective getting to the scene first and recovering the weapon only to find fingerprints on it from the Quartermaster of MI6.” Q wondered why Bond hadn’t simply cleaned off the fingerprints as he had with his own earlier, but then had to wonder how Bond had ended up being kidnapped with him in the first place. 007 did strange things in his company. “Even _I_ don’t want a media shitstorm that big.”  Bond’s voice had turned to a menacing snarl at the end, clearly agitated as he presumably talked to M or Tanner.  Q shivered, telling himself that he should get out of the 00-agent’s bed and do something about the situation himself, but instead he just quivered again and burrowed deeper with a weak twisting of his frame.  

Bond’s voice had softened marginally as he talked to whoever was on the other end of the line, “Yes, I can handle things on this end … Yes, I’ll call if anything changes, and bring him in tomorrow.  I’m not dragging him around at night.”  It was night? When had that happened? Looking back, Q could fuzzily recall that the sky had been darker by the time they’d existed the car, but he’d blamed it on London’s overcast skies and his own narrow focus.

There was the snap of a phone closing, and Q sensed more than heard 007 padding into the room again.  

“Q?”  The careful question usually would have preceded an interrogation as to whether Q was all right, but Bond was smarter than that, and didn’t bother.  Instead, he calmly but firmly explained, “You’re safe and everything is taken care of.  Your only responsibility is to sleep.”

“Can’t,” Q found himself mumbling, wondering when he’d started sounding so embarrassingly petulant and groggy, “Too cold.”  It seemed that the shock of the shooting had detached logic and reason from his actions, because the Quartermaster also found one of his hands snaking out from under the layers of blankets, snagging Bond’s startled wrist as the man leaned forward to take his pulse.  Perhaps Bond was a bit off his game, too, because his reflexes weren’t fast enough to avoid the grip, and he pulled in a soft, surprised breath but didn’t break free.  Instead, there was silence and poignant stillness filling the room like a weighty presence, and Q blinked up at 007 torpidly for a moment - not knowing what he wanted and not coherent enough to voice it if he did - before closing his eyes with a sigh, still holding onto the agent’s wrist.

It was a moment more of motionlessness and quiet before 007 gently but efficiently disentangled himself, but almost as soon as Q felt a pang of loss at the broken contact, he could hear 007 circling the bed, and then the blankets were being drawn up at his back.  Under regular circumstances, Q would have protested against 007 taking liberties, but this time the Quartermaster was too wrung out and shell-shocked to do anything at all as the bed dipped behind him and then strong arms were carefully dipping over his waist, pulling him back even as Bond eased forward.  007 didn’t say anything - no cheeky comment or velvet-edged innuendo to embarrass Q or goad him into a response - but instead moved with slow care to wrap his larger body around Q’s lithe form.  Sometimes his touches were commanding, shifting Q against him so that they fit: he hooked bare feet and ankles around Q’s shins, dragging them back until Q’s cold legs were tangled with Bond’s warm, muscled ones, and grasped Q’s arms so that he could fold them in like errant, shuddering wings.  But 007 seemed to be holding himself admirably in-check instead of pushing the envelope like he was famous for doing.  Q opened his mouth a few times to protest nonetheless, but all of the words died before they even left his chest by the time Bond settled down and stopped moving.  Q was surprised by how well he fit against the dangerous agent’s body at his back, but realized that 007 had to have a lot of practice at making himself comfortable with company in bed - even if his company was usually more dangerous and less familiar.  As if it were entirely normal to be spooning with his Quartermaster, Bond relaxed his head on the pillow just behind Q’s and released the slight tension of his arm hooked over Q’s middle.  The muscular arm under the pillow (and under Q’s head) flexed once and was still.

Although he still felt as though his body was on the fritz - refusing to heat itself or stop the weak trembling in his muscles - the Quartermaster began to warm up, every inch of his skin sucking greedily at the heat Bond gave off.  

And Bond gave it freely.  He didn’t say a world the entire time they lay there, from the moment he made himself comfortable around Q to the moment Q finally drifted uneasily to sleep.  Or even on into the night.

~^~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must apologize for the rather thread-bare bit of planning that went into this - the bit about Marcus and how this round of villains found Q. I am fully aware that I'm grasping at straws, but all that really matters is this: everyone is looking for Q and what he can do, and some of the information has gotten out. So far, the truly dangerous villains are still sitting back and waiting - idiots like this group are mostly cannon-fodder. 
> 
> So, please, don't needle me on the weak explanations in this chapter :P I actually prefer writing character-development and action to complicate explanations of plot (probably because the latter is complicated and harder to write when I'm studying for tests and papers). 
> 
> On another note: I'd love to hear what you guys think should happen next! I've got a bit of writer's block, and always adore suggestions :)


	13. Gun Oil for Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q starts to recover from a rather traumatic last few days. With sporadic help from Bond, of course (depending on one's opinion of 'help'...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I finally got another chapter up! XP Don't worry guys, my crazy semester is almost over - three more weeks, and then I have Christmas Break...and after that is over, I hopefully have less trying classes. MORE FANFICTION TIME FOR ME!!!

~^~

For the first part of the night, Q was sunk in the sleep of the emotionally and physically exhausted. Yesterday had been a bloody long day, and the ones before that hadn’t been any better – not with attempted kidnappings and being shot by a coworker. Whether he wanted to admit it to himself or not, the Quartermaster was wrung out, and as soon as sleep had come within reach, he’d caught it in a death-grip. It was only later that Q began to sleep more fitfully. Dreams set in like hounds, nipping at his heels and making Q the fox – heart racing as he tried to keep ahead of them. When Q would murmur in his sleep and twitch unconsciously, Bond’s arms would tighten down, battling ephemeral dreams with solid, steady reality, pinning Q to the bed. Q would quiet in his arms almost immediately, hushing and stilling, never making any effort to fight the steely muscles that braced him in place. When this happened, 007 watched (whether he slept at all was debatable, but either way, his blue eyes opened instantly whenever Q stirred), taking in the way Q settled down again.

A waking man would have been intimidated. A wise man would have also, calculating the power of a 00-agent against a largely untrained, undefended technophile and realizing how quickly the former could bring about the death of the latter at this intimate range. Whether Q was too trusting, awake or asleep…was a debate that was clearly ongoing. Either way, 007 said nothing, letting Q sink back into dreamless sleep every time, always wrapped up a little bit tighter in the lee of Bond’s body. Expression unreadable even if anyone were watching, 007 looked as he always did – as if he were merely on another mission – but he broke character from time to time, the ice-cold persona cracking as Bond leaned forward to nose at Q’s tangle of dark hair.

Sometimes Q’s dreams were interrupted for warmer sensations of breath against his ear, calloused hands gathering up his wrists and squeezing, or a thumb brushing the backs of his knuckles. Bemusement like a curl of smoke would wind its way through his mind, but then he’d return to darkness with the lingering knowledge that there were fewer nightmares than before. Something about the smell of gun-oil and mild cologne seemed to scare them away.

Q woke up when the bed moved. His eyes blinked torpidly while his brain made a few sleepy, half-hearted attempts to reach alertness – Q wasn’t a morning person, even under better circumstances. It took another few minutes for him to take in the opposite wall and curtained window he was looking at, but he still didn’t realize that he was anywhere but in his own bed in his own flat. Reality came back to him rather suddenly when he tried to sit up five minutes later, about a million aches and pains waking him the rest of the way up and reminding him of the day before. “Buggering  _shit_!” he hissed as he got his legs over the side of the bed, feeling the still-healing bullet wound and the bruise from the seat-belt.

Bond was there like a ghost, although whether he’d been standing by the door this whole time or had just appeared as Q got up and swore, the Quartermaster didn’t know. “For shame, Q,” he said, voice low and joking, “The head of Q-branch should have a better vocabulary than that.”

“What do you want, Bond?” Q sighed tiredly as he dragged a hand down over his face. Without his glasses, the room was fuzzy, making it even more unfamiliar. The Quartermaster felt raw on a level that went deeper than skin, as if someone had scoured his insides with a wire brush. Some part of him realized that he had Bond to thank for his safety – for a lot more than that, actually – but he didn’t think he could contemplate that right now. He felt as though he could still sleep for a week.

The thought of sleep brought up memories of the night before, of 007 somehow stepping out of the killer-persona and becoming something else. The question was: was that just another mask? Maybe when Q didn’t feel so much as though he’d been put through the ringer, he’d try and contemplate the many facets of James Bond.

At least 007 was being sensible this morning, instead of the utter pain he often liked to be. “I _wanted_ breakfast,” the man said, raising an eyebrow at Q’s tone, as if sharpness had ever bothered him before, “Then I was distracted by the singular event of my Quartermaster swearing.”

“Glad I could be amusing.”

“Let me see your leg, Q.”

It was the sudden softness of Bond’s tone that threw Q off-balance. He still hadn’t put his glasses on, although the suspected that the spindly smudge on the bedside table was what he wanted – it meant he couldn’t read anything of 007’s expression except that the man was facing him. Perhaps because he was startled and still reeling from everything, Q didn’t argue. Instead, he just dipped his head in a quick, stiff nod, and acquiesced. He only paused to put his glasses on, and then slipped somewhat clumsily out of his trousers, frowning as he realized for the first time that he’d slept in them. By that point, 007 had circled around to his side of the bed, and had dropped down to his haunches to get a better look at the bullet wound that he himself had inflicted.

“It feels like this happened millennia ago,” Q tried to joke, suddenly feeling comfortable sitting in just his pants and rumpled shirt in front of a man he’d somehow ended up sleeping with. 007’s expression was attentive and clinical, though, as was his touch. Q still shivered.

“Well, you’ve been living an interesting life lately, Q,” the agent replied back as he stood again, maintaining close proximity nonetheless as he made a coaxing motion with his left hand. “Shirt, Q. That seatbelt already did a rather pretty number on the side of your neck, but I’d like to see if there’s any more damage.”

Q paused, eyeing Bond with a raised brow. “You could have checked last night,” he said. However, his hands were seemingly working independently of his brain, because he was already obeying. Soon, he was sitting in nothing but his pants, and wondering why he wasn’t more embarrassed about the whole thing. He gritted his teeth in pain as he felt the bruising from the car-wreck, his left shoulder having gotten stiff in the night as well, just as his leg had. Fortunately, nothing looked particularly life-threatening, although Bond was still a nosy sonofabitch and insisted on prodding Q’s collarbone until the Quartermaster looked away and swore again. “All right – yes – we’ve proven that it’s not broken, but would you bloody stop poking at me already!” Q snapped in an exasperated voice, and this time he had his glasses on to see the cheeky half-smirk that 007 flashed his way. The agent moved off, satisfied that his Quartermaster hadn’t been excessively damaged. Q began pulling on clothes again, working the stiffness out of his healing leg. By the time he reached for his sleep-wrinkled shirt, however, another article of clothing was sailing across the room towards him. Q just caught a tan button-down before it draped itself over his head.

“Make yourself at home, Q,” 007’s annoying voice floated back from the living room, “You’re going to be here for a bit.”

“Wait – pardon?” Q paused with the borrowed shirt in his hands, blinking. He had been awake for barely five minutes and already he was trying to keep up with 007. The agent didn’t bother to reply. Hastily wriggling his long, slim limbs into the sleeves, Q scrambled off the bed and hastily made to follow Bond about the apartment. His socks slipped a few times on the hardwood floor, its polish a dark mahogany. The rest of the flat, which Q hadn’t really had the sense to look at too deeply on his way in, was simple but classy, dark woods off-setting white counters in the kitchen. Q wondered distractedly if it was entirely sensible for a 00-agent to have anything white, considering how hard it was to clean of blood. “What do you mean, I’m going to be here for a bit?” Q demanded while buttoning up his new shirt the rest of the way to the collar. It was too big, but at least the arms were of a serviceable length, neither hanging riding up past his wrist nor hanging off the ends of his hands...very much..

“Exactly what I said,” 007 answered without hesitation while pulling out a frying pan and finding eggs. Q found himself inordinately disturbed by the wrinkles in the agent’s shirt, both because the man never had a hair out of place, and because the creases in the cloth were from sleeping with his Quartermaster. So stuck was he on this messy mass of facts that the younger man almost missed Bond finishing his explanation, “You’ve be attacked once, and almost kidnapped twice. I’m not patient enough by far to let anyone try again.”

A bit startled by the suddenly low and dangerous tone, Q stared at 007’s turned back while listening to the sounds of the man efficiently breaking eggs into the pan. “And your answer to this is – what? Keeping me locked away in your flat until the end of time?” Q asked after a moment, actually managing to sound more curiously amused than offended. “Not that I doubt your household security,” he added with a bit of dryness. Arguing with 007 felt…blessedly normal. Q sat down and tried to focus on the present, rather than on the fact that he had killed someone just yesterday.

“I _am_ my household security,” 007 joked back with a wolf’s fanged cheer. He continued to move about the kitchen, deadly even as he acted domestic. The man could move like a predator without even thinking, but at some point that had ceased to scare Q. “And no – as amusing as keeping you holed up here would be, it wouldn’t do any good. We’d be an island in the middle of a storm, Q.”

“Some islands have survived quite vicious storms.”

“Not the kind of storm you’ve attracted, Quartermaster.” One blue eye slanted back over 007’s shoulder at Q, as unreadable as it was canny. 007 lived for storms, but he didn’t seem to like what this one boded. “I haven’t seen anyone this popular since I was sent to shadow a Russian diplomat a year ago – the man was incredibly popular with the wrong kind of people.”

“And what happened to him?” Q had to ask, knowing he’d regret it.

Now Bond turned around fully, letting the eggs cook a bit while he eyed Q with an inhumanly cool gaze. “I killed him. That was the mission, after all, but the fellow made it easy by staying in one place like a duck in the middle of a pond. If I hadn’t ended him, someone less skilled than myself would have done the job in a day or two.”

Q made a mental note never to get distracted and forget what Bond did for a living. Clearing his throat and looking down uncomfortably, Q pulled at the tan shirt-sleeves, marveling at the fine material. “So what do you have in mind, 007?”

“We stay here a bit, and then we go elsewhere,” was the immediate reply.

Briefly, Q felt the urge to argue, but then let it drop. He was half curious to hear 007’s plan, and the other half of him was still too tired to push back. Instead, he merely sat and waited for more, and was rewarded by a slight canting of 007’s head, like the curious look of a falcon. Perhaps he’d been expecting an argument.

“You called MI6 about…yesterday’s altercation?” Q changed the subject deftly.

For a moment, Bond remained watching him with those glacial blue eyes, but then he turned back to cooking with one smooth motion. It felt a lot like he was humoring Q, but at least he accepted the conversation switch without a hitch, “Yes. M’s handling it. I called her this morning, too, just before you got up. Sounds like the man in the back seat with you will live, probably.” There was an utter lack of guilt there; if anything, Bond sounded proud of himself for nearly killing the man. Q found it hard to think of reprimanding him. “I also made it bloody clear what my opinion is so far on how safe MI6 has been keeping you,” the agent finished in a growl.

That got Q’s eyebrows jumping towards his hairline. 007 was known for being recalcitrant, and no one but him got into the same kind of rows with M and lived to tell the tale, but this was the first time he’d heard Bond downright criticizing the woman. “Did she fire you?” Q had to ask, wondering if 007 had gone insane.

“She threatened to toss me into a pool full of sharks if I didn’t watch my tongue.”

“Very super-villain of her. I hope she also realized that you are the one who's been trying to keep me safe, so you only have yourself to blame,” Q replied. The smell of eggs now combined with toast, and began to get truly distracting.

“No, her orders are to blame,” Bond argued back with the faintest edge in his tone indicating that Q was starting to get on his nerves. Therefore, Q was rather wary as the agent strode over to the table with a plate of toast and butter, but he needn’t have worried. At some point, Q had either become immune to 007’s moods, or 007’s temper had lost the ability to stay fixed on his Quartermaster for long. Bond was back to being idly dangerous once more, placing the plate in front of Q and trailing his fingers across Q’s shoulders seemingly without thinking about it.

After 007 had returned to the stove and it was clear that his temper had quieted as easily as his hand had danced across Q’s shoulders, Q spoke again, using a tone fit for the Quartermaster of MI6, “Explain.”

“MI6 has its own ideas for how to keep you safe, but the way the situation stands now, it’s just a game of cat-and-mouse where you hope the mouse stays lucky,” 007 obeyed with surprisingly little trouble. Note to self: 007 was slightly more obedient when he was tetchy. Too bad he was also slightly less predictable then… “I’ve been guarding and killing people for long enough to know what works and what doesn’t, and what MI6 has me doing isn’t going to work.”

“And you told M that?”

“And I told M that.”

Q just sat there a moment, watching as 007 moved the eggs from the pan to a plate. “I’m just soaking in the mental image of you saying that,” he admitted, and this time finally got a glare from the agent, “The only way it could be better would be if I had been awake, and if you had told M in person. Of course, then, I’d be down one 00-agent.”

“You’re not half as funny as you think you are.”

“Hmm,” Q hummed, considering that, while watching the food being brought to the table, “You might be right. Care to tell me what alternative options you presented to M? I assume you must have. Since all of this rather concerns me…”

“How about you eat first, and then ask questions?” Bond smiled with transparently thin charm, and this time it was Q’s turn to narrow his eyes and frown. That just made the agent regard him and grin, which was when Q realized that there was no use arguing with him.

Breakfast was a remarkably domestic affair. Bond didn’t like to sit still, and was clearly preoccupied, so even after he filled up a plate, he wandered around the room as he ate. Q had hardly ever seen him so restless. “Bond, could you bloody sit still?” Q requested at one point, worrying that the agent’s pacing would wear at his already frayed nerves. When 007 ignored him, however, except for a brief little smirk, Q found that his own irritation didn’t last long. Somehow, the larger man’s new habit of walking and eating soothed the Quartermaster like the predictable path of a pendulum’s swing. He only twitched from time to time as Bond’s movements brought him close enough to brush up against Q’s chair, or the Quartermaster himself.

Both proceeded to eat until Q was nearly finished and Bond completely so, and the latter was glaring at his phone with something like irritation. Q opened his mouth to ask what the devil the poor phone had done, when Bond had one of his creepy moments and answered before being asked, “M told me that if I was smart, I’d give her at least an hour to cool down after my last call before calling again.”

Q resisted the urge to snort into the glass of milk 007 had slipped onto the table near him at some point. “Not brave enough to face her wrath before then, 007?” Q asked with delicately hidden challenge. An icy look flicked up to him, Bond’s ‘un-amused face’. ‘ _I just faced down multiple gunmen and sat through a car-wreck that_ you _initiated_ ,’ Q said to himself but didn’t voice aloud, ‘ _One glare doesn’t faze me at the moment_.’ Maybe later he’d recall his self-preservation enough to be intimidated by 007’s more mercurial moods. “What else did you have to say to her?” Q dropped the teasing to return to business.

Bond’s blue eyes lost their cutting edge, but remained fiercely intense, and Q sensed that he was being checked for cracks. Sighing to himself and sitting back, Q suspected that he probably had quite a few, at the moment.

“I was going to tell her _my_ plan for making sure that MI6 has a Quartermaster by this time next week,” Bond eventually shrugged and said, the muscles on his forearms playing beneath tanned skin as he flexed his arm restively. Q almost cocked his eyes, suspicious of the continued, unprecedented fidgeting, but stopped himself at the last second – because as soon as Q showed curiosity, he was fairly sure that 007 would notice, and all of the man’s attention would return to hiding any clues to his real thoughts.

Well, two could play that game.

Picking up his plate and purposefully turning his attention to that instead of the athletic man leaning against the side of the table across from him, Q pretended to be absorbed in cleaning up. It was honestly a relief to have his mind on something else, but he wished he had his laptop, so that he could lose himself in coding – memories were organic things, and could rarely intrude into the linear, rigid world of patterns and numbers. 007 was a worthy puzzle too, though, so long as Q didn’t push his luck and end up with a dangerous assassin on his hands. Bond was comparatively tame now. “And what are these plans? I assume I’m involved in them.”

“Indeed,” came Bond’s voice, still from the table. He hadn’t moved. Q put the dishes in the sink and scanned around for dish-soap. “I’m going to propose a change in scenery – so far as playing fields go, London isn’t bad, but it’s got too many people in it for me to keep an eye on everything.”

“Soooo…” Q’s brain easily followed 007’s line of reasoning – the agent often acted like a lunatic in the field, but ultimately, his reasoning was always logical, if someone were twisted enough to follow it. It was probably disturbing that Q was… “You want to take me somewhere else. Someplace new. So anyone who wants to get me will have to follow and try to keep up.”

“Exactly. Plus, it’s easier to tell friend from foe in a place that’s largely unpopulated. M hates it when I shoot civilians.”

“And Quartermasters?”

“I believe she might actually attempt to skin me if I do that again,” 007 mused as if he couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. Considering his track-record for empathy, perhaps he didn’t.

Q informed him severely, “ _I_ might attempt to skin you if you shoot me again.”

“Really, Quartermaster?” came the amused purr, and suddenly 007 was right there, materializing like smoke at Q’s side. The Quartermaster jumped and actually squeaked, and the only thing that kept him from breaking a plate was the fact that he’d run enough water in the sink to break the fall of the dropped ceramic. The blonde-haired bastard was grinning that ice-on-velvet smile. “Well, I’ll keep that in mind. For the record, I’m a terribly good shot.”

“And terribly modest.”

“Yes, that, too. But, if you’re worried, I can definitely take down an enemy target without harming you. Reassured?” That damn grin was still there, although Bond had spared an amused glance for the plate that had been dropped into the water and splashed some water up onto Q’s [borrowed] shirt.

“Bond,” Q retorted, having to grip the counter hard and count to ten so as not to utterly explode. Still he said rather more succinctly than kindly, “You’re about as reassuring as a runaway train bearing down on a car stalled in the middle of the tracks! You’re lucky that you’re so bloody effective, or I’d be rethinking the idea of trusting you.”

“You trust me?” was what Bond got out of that, and the scalpel-sharp look was back, the one that pared away flesh from bone, body from soul. 007 was made to take things apart and pry out the secrets, but somehow Q kept forgetting that.

Feeling a bit cornered and a lot out of his element, Q pursed his lips and tried to think of a way out of this conversation. “Bad choice of words.”

“So you don’t?”

“Why do you care?” Q asked shrewdly back, recalling that Bond had never cared if anyone trusted him. He used and fabricated trust like a singer sang a tune, so 007 never made a secret of the general contempt he had for trust. It was a miracle that he could function, when he clearly didn’t even trust M some days…and Q…?

For a second, it looked like Q had struck at something that wasn’t smoke and mirrors, because 007’s eyes narrowed suddenly, the blue flashing. It was a dangerous look, but just _standing_ next to Bond was dangerous, so the Quartermaster didn’t really see any reason to back down. A second later, however, and Bond was smoothing over his expression and slipping on a mask with disturbing ease – a playful, sultry smile, full of a million breeds of trouble. Arms crossed over his chest, he leaned suddenly into Q’s personal space, so his lips brushed Q’s ear. “Because if I’m going to drag you out into the middle of nowhere, to a place that only I know, then you’re going to have to learn to trust me, or things might get-” Q shuddered as 007 lightly – teasingly – placed a kiss like a burning brand on the shell of his ear, all without interrupting his sentence for more than a heartbeat. “-Complicated.”

As 007 swaggered away, all controlled muscles and movement, Q could only think that this was _already_ complicated. “That man is going to be the death of me,” Q breathed to himself grimly as he watched the agent leave the room.

~^~

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented or emailed me with idea ;) I had writer's block, but now I think I know where I'm going with this! Or, at least, I know where Bond is going with Q... (-w-)


	14. Xyresic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which Q tries to figure Bond out, and Bond retaliates by turning up the heat... 
> 
> Or perhaps it is the chapter in which Q _is_ figuring Bond out, but 007 is changing up the game a bit, by trying to distract Q from the new demons he has acquired... That will be up to the reader to decide (~.^)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thanks for my beta for getting this all together - it was truly a fabulous day-late-Christmas for me, with many presents, both in the form of unwrapped gifts and emails received. This chapter needs some sort of tag that hovers between 'smut' and 'fluff', because I have no idea what exactly 007 is doing... 
> 
> Be sure to check out the fanart at the end of the chapter! *hops around delightedly*

~^~

If nothing else, sharing space with Bond _in_ Bond’s natural space was distracting, which meant Q didn’t have to spend a lot of time pondering the last twenty-four hours with all of their horrifying, serrated details. He would face the fallout – and he definitely had a feeling there would be a fallout – later, after he’d run away from his own memories and emotions for a bit.

Bond did not appear to have a computer. Either that or he was purposefully keeping its location secret from Q and waiting to see how long it would be before Q blew a fuse. The lack of technology perhaps made sense for a man who lived more closely to knives and guns, but with Q, it was paramount to sensory deprivation. That alone would have taken up the entirety of his mind, had he not been spending so much time keeping tabs on 007.

The man wandered about, sometimes sitting still for short periods but usually (eventually) getting up to pace leisurely to another part of the flat. ‘Pacing’ usually indicated nerves or restlessness, but with Bond, it was as natural and idle as the shifting of the tides – he simply had energy, and sitting still wasn’t in his nature unless he was forced to do it. Of course, whenever 007 started moving, Q felt obliged to keep some of his focus on the man, lest he be inadvertently snuck up on. It was perhaps entirely possible that 007 wasn’t doing it on purpose…but knowing the kind of man he was, the agent probably knew full well what he was doing.

Q gasped and tensed in surprise as a hand touched his neck. It could only be 007, and the touch was actually obscenely familiar, even if the agent had never appeared behind him to run a palm across the column of his throat. Every instinct in Q’s brain was already screaming ‘ _Danger_!’ and he’d only been aware of 007’s presence for a total of two seconds now. “Don’t have a heart attack, Q,” Bond suggested with a throaty chuckle, voice close to Q’s head.

“Me? Heart attack?” Q said back in a tone that was higher pitched and more breathy than he’d intended. Likewise, his short laugh sounded a bit manic. “Why would I do that?”

“Yes, why ever would you?” murmured the blond man back with smug mirth. His hand slid further, calluses on smooth, vulnerable flesh, curling all the way around until 007’s thumb could stroke the underside of Q’s jaw.

“Maybe because I’ve got a 00-agent’s hand on my throat.”

“Maybe you need to reevaluate when I’m being deadly and when I’m not,” 007 shot back gamely but playfully.

Well, now this was a conundrum. Q sat where he was, head slightly tipped back mechanically and hazel eyes blinking as he tried to calculate James Bond with these new variables. The man didn’t _sound_ dangerous right now. He sounded sated and idle, but perhaps just playful enough to be a menace, which had Q’s hair standing on end. It was the ‘menace’ side that had Q worried. Bond being a menace was the same as a normal human impersonating a virulent plague and a nuclear bomb all in one, and Q wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to be on the receiving end of that. “What do you want, 007?” he asked steadily and calmly.

Bond didn’t answer for a moment. Then his hand stroked slowly down to the hollow of Q’s throat and slowly back up again until it was snug under Q’s jaw, forcing it back a bit further with steady pressure. “Your attention.”

Heart-rate picking up, unsure whether it was out of arousal or fear or a quicksilver balance of both, Q answered, “You have it.” By now, Q’s head was pulled back against the couch far enough to see 007’s face hanging over his, a handsome smirk gracing it. If Q let himself get lost in those inviting good looks, he could almost forget the trouble imbedded in Bond’s pale blue eyes. “But if you want to keep it, you’ll have to tell me why you’re suddenly being so friendly.”

“I’m always friendly,” Bond argued. He seemed, for all intents and purposes, to be lazily leaning his forearms on the back of the couch, but his hands kept moving. The one on Q’s throat rose up to coat the entire underside of his jaw, warm and demanding but still holding back enough not to be threatening; Bond’s other hand grew ambitious and looped around the front of the Quartermaster’s shoulders, making Q feel more closed in – more held close. “And you’re pretty sure of yourself if you think I can keep your attention only by telling you why I’m being such a distraction.”

It was undeniable that Bond was definitely having some success – Q’s focus was definitely becoming magnetized to a pair of blue eyes and a set of skilled, dangerously lovely hands. The Quartermaster mentally withdrew from the haze of sex and promises that 007 was exuding long enough to note something, though, “You’re doing this to distract me?” It was meant to be an unimpressed tone, but 007 was ruining that rather well.

Instead of answering, the assassin leaned over the Quartermaster and pressed his mouth to one cheekbone. The grip of his hands was still intimidating, but that was the nature of the beast: Bond wouldn’t be Bond if he weren’t like this, with one hand trapping Q’s chin from beneath and the other splaying itself hungrily across the hollow of Q’s throat and his collarbones. His fingertips slipped under the collar of Q’s shirt as a second kiss landed on his other cheek, light and playful in comparison to his grip. “Maybe I’m just doing this because I want to,” Bond murmured huskily as he paused a moment in his ministrations.

Q experimentally tried to move a bit, and could feel as dual responses shivered through the agent at his back: the natural reflex to let go, and then the trained, 00-agent response to tighten his grip. Not unsurprisingly, 007's training won out, and Q wasn’t allowed to even budge, although he got a calculating look for his troubles. “If there’s something I will never doubt,” Q said softly and dryly, feeling an almost unsettling urge to lean up for more of those fleeting kisses, “it’s that you will ultimately do what you want, 007.”

“I thought it was my undying loyalty to MI6 you never doubt,” Bond teased with obvious humor, and Q couldn’t do a thing to hold back a little noise as he felt the stubble on 007’s jaw rub against his temple lightly. The impulse to raise his hands and touch back was also hard to fight, but Q kept his arms at his sides, because he was leery of making this into something it wasn’t – instinctively, he knew that all the permission Bond needed to truly unleash himself would be a consenting touch from his Quartermaster. 007’s world was run by odd rules, but there _were_ rules, Q was finding, and some of the strongest ones so far seemed to govern whom he casually kissed and whom he divested of all their clothes and fucked against the wall.

Shivering at that thought – reminding himself that it was the height of foolishness to get involved with a man who lived his life like a radioactive substance, self-devouring and always killing – Q taunted back lightly as his eyes fluttered closed, “No, I think it’s your undying desire to destroy any and all tech I put into your hands that I believe in.”

“There are a few other things you should never doubt about me,” Bond growled, heat like a brushfire in his voice. His right arm across the top of Q’s chest was a warm weight of thick muscle, and more than his fingertips got through the neck of Q’s button-down shirt, until the Quartermaster sucked in a breath to the feel of calluses stroking from his collarbone out to his left shoulder. Then 007’s grip tightened, and Q’s reflexes finally won out and he grabbed at the agent’s forearms, but Bond stopped before his grip threatened the smaller man’s airway in any way. “Don’t doubt that the next person who shoots you will face a more gruesome death than they can even believe exists.”

And with that, 007 disentangled himself from Q’s person, and padded silently out of the room. Like always, he left promises and secrets in his wake like the smell of copper and old smoke.

~^~

“MI6 has a clean-up team at your flat,” 007 informed Q sometime later, after a silence that had lasted nearly four hours. Since Bond’s unexpected sexual advances, the two had avoided each other, although Q couldn’t tell if it was Bond keeping clear of him or vice versa. All Q knew what that he was bloody confused and more than a bit sexually frustrated, and to combat that, he’d dug up some paper and pencils in a kitchen junk drawer and had settled at the table to sketch up some designs. He was no artist, per se, but he liked to design as much as he liked to tinker with broken tech and computers.

Q stifled the urge to jump, but still turned with a thin-lipped frown to where 007 had wandered up behind him. Barefoot, even on hard-wood floor, Bond was a ghost. A smirking ghost. Clearly, 007 was back to his usual, irksome self as if his unexpected behavior of earlier had never happened. “We’ll know if anything besides the two of us were stolen soon.”

“It won’t make any difference,” Q settled down again to reply, pretending to pay attention to his work as penciled lines connected seamlessly. “I don’t make a habit of taking my work home with me, and I only had my backup laptop at home anyway.” He frowned. “And my phone.”

“GPS on that phone?” 007’s eyes grew keen, interested. Q assumed that he’d called M back already, but somehow that phone call hadn’t included yelling or death-threats – at least, none that Q had heard. Q would never understand what drove 007’s moods and what drove him to play nice with others when he clearly preferred to drive them mad.

Slowly, Q nodded. He had quite a few phones, just as he had quite a few other technological devices, but fortunately he also had an eidetic memory to keep track of them all. “Q-branch should be able to activate it remotely, if our villains even took it at all.”

“Worth a shot,” Bond shrugged as mildly as he ever did, muscular shoulders rolling. He glanced briefly at Q’s expanding designs and tilted his head with curiosity, and already Q could imagine the man destroying this piece of tech, before it was even invented. “What are you making, Q?”

“ _Not_  a toy for you,” Q emphasized. “I don’t know why I give you anything more high-tech than a laser pen, considering your track-record.”

“You’re a cruel man, Q,” Bond accused as he turned and left the room, each step he took away corresponding to a slow relaxing of the Quartermaster’s shoulders. It was hard to look at 007 and not think about so many things, and now Q just had to resign himself to the fact that being within a ten-mile radius of Bond would always come with lots of confusion and trouble. Apparently, being in close proximity to the man for extended periods of time only made it worse.

At least it kept Q’s mind off all the shooting, kidnapping, and espionage.

007 was done being elusive, however, and returned to the kitchen. He’d replaced his phone with a deck of cards, and seemed relaxed as he pulled up a chair and immediately leaned back on it, feet propped up on the table and crossed at the ankle. How he managed to make that look classy, Q had no idea, but he was determined to ignore the agent and focus instead on his sketches.

Typically, though, ignoring 007 was impossible. He was built like a solar flare: a force of nature, incapable of running any other way but hot, and more than likely to destroy any and all tech in the area.

Besides all that, watching Bond shuffle cards was damn intimidating.

Of course, Q was perfectly aware of how this particular incarnation of 007 made a normal card-game look like a splash in the kiddie pool until he showed up – and then absolutely drowned the competition after he waded into the game. Like just about everything else he did, Bond made the game deadly, vicious skill hidden in those hands even though all he was doing was moving cards. Q was always secretly baffled that MI6 kept a man with that much deadly skill on track. 007’s loyalty and obedience were largely in the same realm as urban legend and speculation: there was an adequate amount of proof to at least suspect that they existed, but skeptics abounded, and there was no solid evidence. Bond himself was like some kind of fairy-tale monster, all deadliness and allure wrapped up together so well that it was hard to tell if one wanted to keep reading deeper or not.

Q was in the process of deciding whether he wanted to just sit and ‘read deeper’ or change tactics and ask precisely how Bond’s last talk with M had gone and whether it had included death-threats. Unexpectedly, glacial blue eyes lifted, making up Q’s mind for him. Scarred hands kept to their movements, cards sliding, switching places, and realigning. “Care to play a hand?” Bond asked with such an utter lack of interest that Q was sure the man had been wanting to ask this for some time now.

“After you’ve nearly singlehandedly made half of Q-branch bankrupt? No, thank you,” Q answered with dry politeness. ‘ _Is this your idea of testing the waters after kissing me earlier_?’ was left unasked in his head.

A little grin was tickling at the corner of Bond’s mouth, the kind of smile that Q still didn’t know the reality of or not. Every face 007 made looked quite real, but it was exceedingly rare for his eyes to ever warm up – now, for example, they just looked playfully calculating, like a cat’s, and about as warm as a winter day. “I never took you for a coward, Q,” the agent nonetheless said playfully.

“And I never took you for someone to use the word ‘coward’ so lightly,” Q tossed back without getting offended. As blandly as he could, giving Bond no handholds to grab and extort, Q replied, “After all, isn’t retreating sometimes the best course of action?” Retreating seemed to be what Bond had been doing lately, whenever Q came close to figuring him out.

“Only if you know you’ll lose,” Bond grinned sharkishly over his cards.

“Ah, but that’s still smart – not cowardly,” Q lifted a finger, then turned back to his work on the design specifications for a new motorbike. “I’ve seen you at cards, 007. I don’t know if I’d win or lose, truthfully, but avoiding the event seems like the best way to never find out.”

“You’re no fun at all, Quartermaster.” It sounded suspiciously like there was a laugh present into those words – wrapped up and hidden by well-practiced taunting, but present. However, without further pushing, Bond went back to his idle card-shuffling. Whenever Q glanced over – curious despite himself – it was to see the stiff rectangles of paper veritably dancing at Bond’s demand, the card tricks so elegant for someone who could be so brutal.

“Fine then,” Q said suddenly, turning his chair and putting down his pencil. The motorbike designs could wait; the sooner he designed and built it, the sooner the 00-department would break it anyway. “But I get to pick the game.” Q was feeling reckless, and maybe it was because he’d nearly died – maybe it was because he’d killed. Maybe it was because he’d come awfully close to being in bed with one of the most dangerous 00-agents in history, and he still wasn’t sure why he hadn’t. Or if that bothered him.

Those blue eyes were impossibly dangerous as they lit up immediately with mischief. Those were the kinds of eyes that had looked out of the shadows on scores of missions, ready to snatch up the blind, ignorant, or unwary. Q, fortunately, was neither ignorant nor unwary, although he admitted to be rather blind without his glasses on. “Fair enough,” the agent rolled the words around in his mouth before letting them out, all suave tone and idle inflection. “What do you have in mind? Blackjack, Poker…?” A second later and 007’s was dropping to a low purr as he amended, “ _Strip_ -poker?”

“You’d have far, far too much fun with that,” Q retorted to hide the flush rising up his neck just at the thought. All 007 was doing was sitting for a change, but he looked _good_ doing it, lounging just enough that his long legs were extended to advantage, his button-down shirt stretching perfectly across his chest, stomach, and shoulders to remind Q of what kind of athletic body was hidden beneath. Involuntarily, Q thought about being with 007 in the shower only days ago, and had to work hard to push back the images of tanned, damp skin within easy touching distance. He had no doubt that he could have quite a lot of it within touching distance again if he just agreed to play 007’s game – at the expense of Bond doing the same to him in return. What game was Bond _really_ playing? Standing to clear his bits of paper and eraser-shavings from the table as well as his pant-legs, Q dared to accuse with dry playfulness, stalling, “You’d lose on purpose just to show off.” He picked up his papers, clearing off the table by moving everything instead to the kitchen countertop instead.

“But you forget – I hate losing.” Q jumped as a hand touched the small of his back, making the Quartermaster reflexively jerk his head around. He was left to look at Bond’s now-empty seat and try to figure out how the man had gotten out of it so fast. As usual, Q hadn’t heard anything, because 007 reveled in being as silent and stealthy as a fog rolling in. “But if the pay-off was big enough, it would be worth it,” 007 continued in a musing tone while his hand wandered a few inches up and a few inches down, rucking Q’s shirt slightly and making his breath catch in an unconscious little sigh. Unexpectedly the larger man ducked in close, so that Q could feel him inhale just behind his ear, putting his toned body close like a blanket of hot muscle. “Are you _sure_ you don’t want to play strip-poker against me?” he asked with almost gleeful, predatory humor.

It was becoming very, very hard to think straight, and Q’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the counter. Usually, at times like these, when Bond was pulling out all the stops to outmaneuver him, Q found that battling back with self-deprecating truth was the best defense – because that was the last thing that Bond knew anything about. He hadn’t done much of that hours ago, back on the couch, but he’d been less prepared then. “Oh, I’m quite sure that however that ended, I’d be the losing party,” Q said quite lightly for someone who literally had a 00-agent breathing down the back of his neck. The hand that had been on his back had wandered to his side, although it remained relatively chaste as it simply felt at Q’s lower ribs through his borrowed shirt. It was impossible to forget that those hands were as likely to save things as to destroy them, depending on whatever laws and rules 007’s xyresic mind was following today.

“Losing could be fun,” Bond rumbled, running his closed lips up and down the back of Q’s ear. 007 wasn’t giving up yet, clearly, but Q still hadn’t heard truth in his voice, and that was what he wanted, Q realized: he wanted truth. He wanted James. This was the agent, outmaneuvering a mark, not James having a bit of fun with a man he fancied. Q didn’t know if Bond could do any differently if he tried, though, so it was hard to take offense. It was also hard to look logically at the whole situation with 007 sidling up closer behind him and biting at the shell of his ear so that Q could feel individual little sparks of sensation skating down his neck and spine.

“Did you like it when you lost against me at chess?” Q gathered the mental capacity to grasp the topic and ask, just a little bit of sharpness to his tone. Bond pulled in a slow, purposeful breath as if giving the deft stab the respect it deserved, and his mouth laid off for a moment.

“You say that like you won every time,” chided the agent with slight annoyance, and then went back to being distracting.

The sign of irritation meant that Q was at least gaining some small upper-hand, and it made him smile even as he held perfectly still, feeling as though he was digging through the darkness for something that may not even exist. Anyone who had ever worked with or against Bond would probably attest to the fact that 007 was nothing but a deadly weapon through-and-through, wrapped up in a good-looking skin and a sharp suit. Q resisted the urge to watch 007’s hands, only glancing at them from time to time, perplexed by how well they were behaving even if the man’s mouth seemed determined to map out Q’s right ear and now the side of his neck. Bond’s left hand had stilled against the Quartermaster’s waist while the agent’s right was doing nothing more than rest against the countertop, touching nothing but fine-grained wood and the deck of cards. “If you’re so fixated on winning and losing, then why do you care about the game so much?” Q asked, suddenly wondering if he was talking about cards or not, closing his eyes with a little gasp of breath. Mostly, it was a reaction of surprise, because the tip of 007’s tongue had just brushed the vulnerable skin behind his ear. Q wasn’t the Quartermaster for nothing, however, and nerves of steel came with the territory, allowing him to go on with sudden shrewdness, “Are you afraid I’ll pick a game you can’t win?”

Q knew that he’d said the right thing when 007 froze, just for a second. It was so brief that anyone would have missed it – a glitch in a beautiful program – if the spy in question weren’t pressed so close to the smaller man’s back. 007’s fingers tightened for a second around Q’s hipbone, then drummed a broken rhythm there before stopping. “What did you have in mind?” 007 asked grudgingly after his brief but telling pause.

Missing the presence of lips and careful teeth at his neck more than he wanted to admit, Q sighed and then replied, “Go Fish.”

~^~

If nothing else, this was the most interesting game of Go Fish Q had ever been party to. Of course, since there were only two people playing, they’d had to change the rules a bit, but both Q and Bond had skillful, flexible memories. Besides, two men who worked for MI6 could hardly be expected to follow conventional gaming rules. Now they sat across from each other on the table, two ‘fake hands’ lying face-down on the table to both right and left and the remaining cards either in their hands or on the deck of cards stacked between them. Said deck was actually three decks, just to keep things interesting. Sometimes they asked one another if they had a card, or sometimes they drew randomly from the two side-decks, although if they didn’t get the card they wanted, they put it back in the ‘fake hand’ and remembered it for later. For Q, it was stupidly easy to memorize the two ‘fake hands’ that way, and he suspected that Bond was doing much the same.

Even if Bond’s memory were perhaps less photographic than Q’s, he was very, very good at reading people. Q had been counting on this when he picked the game, because he knew that facial expressions and other tells were most likely what gave Bond such a devastating advantage in most card-games. In Go Fish, however, he was constrained to asking ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions only, and there was precious little he could gain by monitoring his Quartermaster’s response. Of course, on one occasion when Bond had asked if Q had any Aces of Spades (they’d also decided that correct suits _and_ numbers were needed to make adequate pairs, if they wanted the game to last at all), Q had said no while holding that exact same card carefully behind his fingers. Instantly, 007’s eyes had narrowed, and he’d said only, “Lie,” before reaching out a hand beckoningly. Two impatient snaps of his fingers and Q was giving in with ill grace and a roll of his eyes, moving his hand deftly but still finding his fingertips brushing Bond’s. The calluses felt warm and almost familiar against his fingers by now. “Nice try, Q.”

“Why, thank you,” Q said with a small, rueful smile, both pleased and a little bit surprised that 007 was unoffended. Bond lied so easily, though, that it would be hypocritical of him to hold it against anyone for lying to his face in return. “Any chance you might have a four of spades?”

“No. Go Fish,” Bond easily replied, looking disinterestedly at his cards as he sat back in his chair, one foot thumping against one of the table legs on Q’s side of the table, causing the faintest, repetitive shudder in the table every time. Blue eyes flicked up, and Q was almost startled by the sudden cheek in them – the look as so different from the last one that it was as if a veil had been lifted, revealing a whole other mask. “Then again, I could be lying,” the agent noted with amused smugness, waiting to see what Q would do. His foot moved from tapping the table leg to rhythmically drumming one of Q’s chair-legs, so close that Q could feel some of Bond’s body-heat radiating through his trouser-leg.

“True, but you hardly need the practice,” Q kept his easy, relaxed smile in place as he continued to appear untroubled by Bond’s recalcitrant temperament, “and I imagine that you’ll get quite bored that way, lying to me, when all it will gain you will be bragging rights to a child’s game.” He had no idea if his ploy would work, but it wasn’t anything but the truth – Q was merely reminding Bond of just how little a threat his bespectacled Quartermaster was to him, and why lying was utterly unnecessary.

007’s blond head cocked slightly, eyes sharpening again, and Q repressed a shiver as he felt himself being taken apart, Bond’s eyes sliding under his skin like silken claws – efficient and sleek, brutal but subtle. He could almost feel bits of himself being peeled elegantly back, until he wondered what Bond could see that would make his face so intent. Q had been trying to make himself harmless, and suddenly 007 had looked at him as if he were the greatest puzzle he’d ever seen.

Bond went back to the game abruptly, deciding to look in one of the ‘fake hands’ for the card he needed, and stopped threatening Q with possible cheating. He must have gotten the card he wanted, because he lay down two Jacks of Spades and then drew one card face-down from the deck to replenish the ‘fake hand’.

Ironically, it was Q who felt bored a few turns later. Apparently 007 had gone into an introspective mood, which was somehow worse than him lying, cheating, or generally making an arse of himself at cards. “Do you have a Queen of Hearts?” Q asked suddenly, knowing that Bond had it from a question rounds earlier.

For a moment, 007 hesitated, and it was brilliant to watch. His brows twitched low over his blue eyes, and one hand actually froze in the process of reaching for the card. Q burst out laughing almost immediately, and kept laughing until he had to put his cards down and smother his mouth with a hand. “I’m playing ... with a bloody lie-detector,” he finally managed to stutter out between chuckles, unsure whether this was actually belated insanity from having killed a person after becoming wanted by nearly the entire criminal underworld.

Even 00-agents of Bond’s caliber got annoyed – or impatient – with manically giggling Quartermasters, and Bond’s shoe shoved at Q’s shin somewhat roughly. “You don’t have a Queen of Hearts,” the agent accused at the same time, and Q had to be impressed by how quickly 007 had figured that out.

“Correct,” Q huffed a few more laughs before straightening and trying to rein his humor in. He took off his glasses to rub at the mirthful tears that had collected at the edges of his lashes, “I just wanted to see if you’d be able to tell, since I was asking for a card I didn’t even need. It seemed fair, what with your threats to lie to me.” Q jumped as he felt a tug at his hand, and blinked and squinted to see that 007 had a hand outstretched to grab the leg of Q’s glasses not already held in one of the Quartermaster’s long-fingered hands. It wasn’t a threatening sort of hand-hold by any means, but it still had the effect of making Q’s heart thump as he blinked shortsightedly across at the man withholding his glasses. Soon the agent let go, however, even reaching a bit forward to push gently at Q’s wrist, moving the glasses back towards his face.

“Lying to a 00-agent is risky business, you know that, right?”

Q could see the smile once he had his glasses back on, and he was grateful for the playing field being evened again, visually anyway. Bond’s smile was as shallow and flat as glass, but it didn’t look any more threatening than any of the man’s regular looks. “Good thing we’re just playing a harmless game of Go Fish then.”

“That’s why you picked this game?” 007 tilted his head again, half considerating, half mocking. “Because it’s the opposite of dangerous?”

“Actually, I picked it because no one would ever believe that you’d ever played it, 007. So, no matter who won, or who lost, or how spectacular either event was, I could trust you wouldn’t go around ruining my reputation with it,” Q answered smoothly, smiling a tiny, pleasant smile again. This time, when 007’s eyes shifted in the light, it was with an impressed expression. It was as hard to impress 007 as it was to surprise him, yet Q had done both in the past ten minutes, and he felt more than a bit giddy at that knowledge.

Even if Q never figured Bond out, he’d be able to say that he made the agent just as confused in return.

~^~

 

 

 

 

 _As a bonus, here is some amazing fanart done by a friend of a friend <3 <3  This was sent to me ages ago, but I've been too much of a technotard to get it posted in a chapter!  I always love fanart, and squee a bit [a lot] when someone takes the time to draw up something like this for something I've written!_  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still no new laptop for me, although I've been assured that I will get one eventually! Until then, postings will continue to be erratic XP No fics shall be abandoned, however!!! *strikes a gallant/heroic post* I have only abandoned one fic in my life, and never shall I do it again!! Especially not when I'm having this much fun...


	15. A Man Made of Razorblades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q and Bond finally go back to MI6 to prepare for their little trip off the grid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Okay, another chapter - a bit of a turning-point, if you will... Plus, isn't it about time for Q to take the initiative? Enjoy!

~^~

“Q.”

The Quartermaster jumped as 007’s hand snaked out and caught his, despite the fact that the agent had been sitting on the couch and apparently focused on a tense, heated phone conversation with M and Q had been just walking by behind him.

All 007 did then was tug Q forward by the wrist until he could deposit the phone in the smaller man’s commandeered hand. “M wants to speak with you,” was the brief explanation.

Cocking an eyebrow, Q brought the cell-phone to his ear. “M. This is Q. Am I correct in assuming that 007 overstepped his phone privileges?”

“He’s lucky he’s so good at his job, or I’d have dropped him in the Thames by now,” was M’s immediate and pert response – she clearly meant what she was saying. “Has Bond informed you of the plan?”

Wary of saying yes and realizing that he really had no idea, Q hummed for a brief moment as he circled the couch to sit on it. 007 would eavesdrop shamelessly, but this way, it seemed like Q was letting him. Bond arched one eyebrow. “Let’s just assume he hasn’t, for the sake of everyone being on the same page.”

“Probably wise,” the woman admitted. “While I was skeptical at first, I’ve come to agree with Bond’s assessment of your safety.”

“Which is what?”

“That stronger measures need to be taken to ensure it, and keeping you in Bond’s care might be the best option. He has extensive experience in guarding an asset – just as much as he has experience at killing marks, truth be told – and for those reasons I’m willing to put your care in his hands.”

Q was still a bit troubled that no plan had been explicitly told to him, which either meant he wasn’t going to like it, or… “What care has 007 suggested?”

“I don’t know. Bond has made it clear that he intends to remove you from danger, but the exact location is known only to him,” M admitted, voice still as stern and imperious as any mountain. Q had noticed that even when 007 was at his worst, M remained an impermeable fort – an angry impermeable fort, but still ultimately untouched by Bond’s shenanigans.

Cutting a look Bond’s way – and finding those blue eyes watching him steadily, maybe somewhat challengingly – Q sighed past pursed lips and decided, “I’ll need to drop into MI6 first. If I have to go another day without some of my tech, I’ll go insane before anyone ever tries to kidnap me again.”

~^~

Unexpectedly, 007 agreed to the plan, although it was clear that he didn’t like it. In fact, Q got the distinct impression that the blond-haired agent wanted to keep him in the flat, which was odd because Q got the impression that no one else ever stayed here besides Bond himself (and perhaps not often him either). Plus, there was the fact that Q had just beaten him soundly at Go Fish. The agent had taken the loss with poor grace, glaring at Q for the next five minutes before just deciding to call MI6 – the phone call that Q had finished up just now. The way that Bond had hovered around his Quartermaster, however, almost to the point of hemming him in as he got ready to leave for MI6, made Q think that Bond didn’t like the idea of leaving. Even when Q had been changing back into his own clothes (wrinkled from being slept in, and still smelling slightly of stale fear), Bond had inserted himself into the situation like a herding dog crowding its flock of one. Since Q was coming to accept the fact that modesty had no place in 007’s company, he’d simply stripped down and changed while the agent sat on the bed and watched. His blue eyes had tracked Q’s every move in silence, naturally attentive.

Bond had been Q’s shadow to the car, and kept up small talk during the drive. It was like when they’d first started running into each other back in Q-branch, with 007 playing the perfect gentleman and talking about anything and everything that was required of him while they played chess. This should have been nice. After all, at least when Bond was talking about senseless nothing, he wasn’t needling at Q and trying to take him apart piece by informative piece. However, the Quartermaster was irked to find that now his mind wasn’t engaged – apparently verbal sparring with Bond was not only incredibly frustrating, it was  _challenging_  – so instead he was thinking about guns in his hand and people he hadn’t wanted to kill.

By the time they had stopped in the MI6 carpark, Q felt jumpy and uncomfortable inside of his own skin, and he’d stopped paying attention to 007 as he instead drowned slowly in the worst memories from the recent kidnapping. He didn’t know how 00-agents did it: they killed for a living, and in far more vicious, cold-blooded fashions, and had to do it  _repeatedly_.

Q halted with a jolt as warm, calloused fingers on his nape yanked him back to reality. They’d been walking away from the car, with Q on autopilot and 007 as lethally alert as ever – it was both unsettling and surprising that Q had managed to ignore the agent, despite what he knew about him. Now the Quartermaster blinked and dragged his attention back to the present, glancing to the side where Bond was standing placidly next to him. Instead of the usual expressions the man wore – glimmers of dangerous amusement, faked interest, or slow burning lust that immolated what it touched before long – there was simply a watchful, patient blank. Q blinked at him, confused for a second, before he realized that this was the most truthful expression he’d ever seen on Bond’s face.

“How do you do it?” Q asked quietly, easily accepting the slowly moving grip on his neck. The way it was starting to knead slowly at the edges of his cervical vertebrae was reminiscent of his idle touches, or the way he’d kept Q from falling in the shower. “How do you just end a life?”

“The point isn’t ending another life – it’s not letting it end  _you_ ,” was all the 00-agent would say, voice calm and uninflected. Then he nodded in the direction they’d been heading, and said as he let his hand fall from the smaller man’s neck to trail absently down to the small of his back, “Come on, Q.”

Q let the touch urge him forward, his mind now preoccupied with teasing apart the puzzle of 007’s words, and the strange sincerity he’d just seen in a blank, expressionless face.

~^~

“Quartermaster,” M greeted them once they were in the heart of MI6 – home once again. M was as fierce and sharp-eyed as always, as she took in Q with a sweep of her crystalline eyes before turning a warier look to 007. She dipped her head in a brief nod to him, too. “007. Good to see you both back.”

“Not for long,” Bond reminded, hooded eyes meeting his superior’s unflinchingly.

For her part, M merely nodded. “This is an unusual situation, and I have agreed that the best way to respond is with an unusual answer – as you have agreed, Quartermaster.” Q nodded. As much as he hated the vagueness and lack of facts he was getting, he was willing to trust Bond’s expertise in this case. The agent had shown him the same courtesy in the past. “MI6 will provide you with a car, and Quartermaster, you are responsible for what else you deem necessary.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the bespectacled young man nodded respectfully, and turned to be about his business. There was no point in dallying around, and one thing that M and Q agreed on totally was a general hatred for wasted time. However, M called out before he and Bond were more than a few steps away.

“Quartermaster?”

“Yes?” He turned. Bond kept walking and gave the appearance of not listening.

“After you’ve seen to your Branch, come back to my office. There are some things I wish to tell you,” the woman said in her usual prim tone, but there was something in her eyes – something deeper. They looked almost sad, beneath the iron shielding.

Puzzled and curious, Q tilted his head a bit, but nodded again. “Of course. I’ll be back within the hour.”

~^~

“I’m surprised you aren’t requesting more guns.”

007’s mouth kicked up at the edges. “Quality over quantity, Q,” he replied with his usual, effortless charm. “Although I can’t say the same for your choices.”

“Hey,” Q defended as he continued to load up the supplies he wanted for this mystery trip, “I asked you if there would be internet, and you said no, so that means I have to bring more tech to set up my own internet.” Plus whatever else he felt he might need, which was a pretty long and varied list, because 007 was a cagy bastard and refused to say where they were going. It was insane that Q was trusting him on so little data, but apparently he’d realized that Bond was invested in his safety some time ago.

“What even  _is_  this?” the agent asked from the duffel bag Q was meticulously packing his things. While Q had been grabbing the cords he’d need, the agent had apparently gotten bored or nosy. Probably both. Now Bond was wrinkling his nose at a small square of metal in his fingertips.

Q immediately darted over, feeling like he was babysitting. “That’s a bug – which you’ve used multiple times, by the way.”

“I’m sure I’d remember,” Bond argued back as smoothly as silk, even as he let the Quartermaster disengage the little listening device from his fingers. Blue eyes watched as it was returned to its separate pouch within the duffel bag. “Maybe you just think you gave me toys like that, Quartermaster.”

Chuckling dryly, Q went back to coiling cords as he corrected, “Maybe you broke them before they could do you any good. That might explain why they left no imprint on your memory.”

Bond was definitely grinning, a glass-cut expression that felt as handsome as it was dangerous – although Q knew instantly that the danger didn’t apply to him. How long had he known that? “Ah, yes. That might explain it. You should make them tougher.”

“You should stop breaking my things.”

“How else am I to get your attention?” teased the larger man with that wolfish smile still in place. His blue eyes danced like sun glinting off dangerous waters, and it was probably that look that was keeping the rest of the Q-branch staff at a distance. They’d been elated to see their Quartermaster again, but the day would never come when they were at ease with a 00-agent in their midst – this was even more the case with 007, who unsettled Q-branchers on a level that put his fellows to shame.

Q’s mind drifted to just how skilled 007 was at getting his attention, and had to give himself a mental shake while his hands froze at their work. Silently, but like a ship moving close in the night, Bond approached until Q could feel heat at his back. “Quartermaster?” asked Bond in a deceptively light voice.

Recalling that he was in the middle of Q-branch (with at least four of his underlings watching him worriedly at this very moment, as a known dangerous agent pushed the boundaries of personal space), Q deftly slipped around Bond to put his cords in the bag, zipping it closed. “You have everyone’s attention just by entering a room, 007,” Q replied in a mollifying tone and with a patronizing little smile meant to rankle – it did, and now it was Bond’s turn to frown at Q. One point for the skinny boffin. “Now:  _you_  stay here. Actually, I take that back. If I leave you here you’ll unleash pandemonium in my Branch,” Q evaluated unabashedly, hefting his bag with a  _whuff_  of breath as he realized just how heavy he’d made it. On second thought, maybe he’d have Bond take that out to the car. “I’ve got to go see M, but you can make yourself useful by moving this to the car. I believe MI6 has cleared us for one on the second level of the carpark.”

“Whatever you say, Q,” 007 said in a put-upon tone. Q couldn’t help but be jealous but also impressed as 007 hefted Q’s bag as well as his own, which held the guns he’d requested for himself. Each got slung over a shoulder, muscles taking the burden and flexing as they adjusted to the weight. Bond’s cocky expression showed that he was willfully showing off just a bit.

Q could have told him that he hardly needed to. The Quartermaster had seen all of that strength at work on missions, and all the man had to do was  _move_  for people to realize that he was a powerhouse. Sighing at the theatrics, Q picked up his personal laptop bag and headed for the door. “Come on then. I’ll show you out.” He left instructions with R and the others as he left, promising to be back soon without admitting that he had no idea when exactly. 007 followed like an obedient shadow, silent except for the creak and shift of the bags he carried.

“Take your time, Q,” 007 drifted past the smaller man once they’d left Q-branch, somehow managing not to bump him along the way, although he brushed against the computer bag and made Q reflexively want to move the tech out of the agent’s reach. The blonde-haired man was moving off down another hallway, though, presumably to wreak havoc in someone else’s life. Havoc was what Bond specialized in, when he wasn’t focused on espionage. That left Q to walk by himself down to M’s office, feeling both light and strangely lonely without the omnipresent 00-agent by his side. Q realized that he’d gotten used to Bond – from his homicidal tendencies to his constant need to touch.

“M?” Q was let into her office by a sympathetic Eve Moneypenny (whether she sympathized with Q for having been targeted by criminals, or because he was stuck with 007, remained to be seen). “You wanted to see me before 007 and I made our exit?”

“Yes, Quartermaster. Before you pull your temporary disappearing act,” said M, looking unexpectedly grim, her thin lips pressed together, “I think there are some things you need to know. Sit.”

Feeling uneasy himself now, the young man nonetheless did as he was told, settling into the uncomfortable chair across the desk, putting his laptop case down next to him.

M started immediately, efficiency being a coat she’d worn long and well. “How much do you know about James Bond, Q?”

“Um…?” Unsure how to answer, or how much to say without things getting uncomfortable, Q thumped his fingertips on the chair-arm and mentally scrambled a bit. “Well, I’m aware of anything that was on his files. Nearly impossible track record for mission success – equally high marks in marksmanship and general destruction. I know that Medical is baffled at his continued state of being alive, while Psych doesn’t know whether to label him as a sociopath or keep mum to avoid possible repercussions on his part.” Q sighed, recalling some of the earlier missions he’d handled with 007. “I also know that he’ll sleep with anything that moves.” Specifically women on cameras that Q was watching. And possibly Q, if the Quartermaster would let him. A flush of confusing feelings – interest, anxiety, excitement, and nearly visceral fear – roiled through him like a flash-fire, quickly burning down again.

“It’s actually his predilection for sleeping with dangerous people that I wish to talk about. Now – before you say anything-” M lifted an imperious hand just as the Quartermaster drew in a breath to speak. “-I’m well aware of Bond’s growing interest in you. I’m old, not blind. You should know that Bond doesn’t usually show an interest in anyone when he’s off-mission, so it’s a bit easier for me to spot than you’d think.”

Q couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He was already blinking like an owl newly out in the sun, frowning as the given facts refused to mesh. “I thought he slept around prolifically off-mission?” He already had more than enough proof of 007’s rampant sexuality  _on_ -mission.

M cast him a hard-to-read little smile. “I said ‘interest in,’ not slept with – and he doesn’t have an ounce of interest for any of those pretty faces he sleeps with around London,” she replied tartly and without doubt, “And before you ask how I know all of this, you must realize that you’re not the only one who has a certain skill for remotely monitoring an asset.” With a resigned sigh, M sat back a bit, and admitted, “For the past few years, Bond has been a round-the-clock headache who requires constant watching.”

“You actually put tails on him?” Q asked, shocked.

“Carefully and from a great distance. I’m sure he’s aware of nearly all of them, but he’s a good enough sport to benevolently tolerate it.” Which was shocking in its own right, because 007 was benevolent about basically nothing – which explained M’s next rueful sentence: “The real problem is finding agents who aren’t too intimidated by 007’s reputation to do the job.” At that point, M’s mouth twitched in a cunning, tiny smirk, and she explained, “We call it training. If new agents can follow 007 for even a few hours without him doubling back, catching them, and pleasantly threatening to feed them their own fingers, they get promoted.”

Unsure whether to be amused or disturbed by this use of a 00-agent as training material, Q asked cautiously, “And if they can’t?”

“Remedial training. Bond never damages them too much.” That said quite a lot about Bond’s relationship with MI6 and with M: in Bond’s position, Q was very sure that he would have gotten incredibly angry by now, but instead, it sounded like Bond treated it all like a necessary game. Perhaps it also had the pleasant side-effect of keeping him from getting bored off-mission. “That’s not what I’m here to talk about, Q. I’m here to tell you some things about 007’s past that are not in his file, and which I don’t see him telling you himself. Honestly, I don’t even know if he _can_ tell you. The man you know as James Bond is more broken than you think.” While Q stared at M with narrowed, suspicious eyes (feeling defensive but not knowing whether it was for himself or for the agent in question), the older woman folded her hands upon her desk and asked, “Have you heard of the woman called Vesper Lynd?”

Q’s brows drew down lower behind his glasses, and he agreed slowly, “Yes, she was involved in one of Bond’s earlier missions. He was newly promoted to 00-status.”

“Yes, he was, and he was already promising,” M nodded, “Vesper was a distraction, however, and no one quite realized how quickly he became attached to her. It’s a usual mistake for new agents – getting romantically involved with people they meet on the job – but we hadn’t honestly thought that Bond would make that mistake, because he’s always been quite like you know him now. Cold, calculating, and morally deficient enough to make him an incredibly useful and flexible spy. But there was something about Vesper…” M sighed, and there was true regret in her tone. Suddenly, her eyes looked older, as if their bright and wintry spark was dimmed by the smoke of old memories. “It’s possible that we will never know her whole story – she had handlers of her own, and it’s been inferred that she had some of the same ethical gaps that 007 does, although I suspect to a lesser extent.” Pride reignited that light in the woman’s eyes, and she stopped looking off into the distance to fix Q with an indefatigable look. “Bond was the better agent, even back then. When the dust settled, he was alive and she was dead by questionable means.”

“He killed her? That’s not what the file says.”

“The file is inconclusive,” M said with a mien of troubled discontent on her face that was quickly eliminated. “I know that Bond can destroy or change evidence to his own liking, and that situation was so mucked up that I honestly have no idea what happened. But what I do know is that when Vesper left, she took whole chunks of James Bond with her. She’d tangled them together – so he had to rip off pieces when they came apart.” M’s eyes were now as cold and frostbitten as the deepest north, the look of a mother wolf when a snowstorm challenges her and is found lacking. Q found himself glad that he was not this Vesper Lynd, and that Vesper was dead – because he’d never seen M so transparently hate a person with frigid, controlled fury. Again, it was a fleeting impression, before M composed herself and looked off to the left, merely aloof and cool. “Bond was dangerous before, of course. Cunning, quick, ready to be brutal when needed. But Vesper broke him.” Hard grey eyes snapped back to Q. “And he put himself back together more dangerously than before.  She broke his heart in such a deep way that I don’t even know how he recovered, but when he did, it was with all of his razor edges intact and all of the underlying softness sharpened to points. James Bond was dangerous – Vesper made him _lethal_. I don’t know whether I should thank her or hate her for that, because now MI6 has a weapon that it never would have dreamed of before.”

Q was stunned. He’d always had nagging questions in his head, questions regarding Bond’s history and whether he’d always been like this, or whether his particular brand of psychosis had roots in some past event. He’d somehow never considered, however, that it could be a violently broken heart that could do it. Maybe it was because Q always thought of broken hearts as crippling things, rather than scalpels that cut away weaknesses and left only an armor of shards behind. Once, Q had held a piece of polished obsidian in his hand: small, black, and slightly translucent if held to the light. Then someone had told him that if you broke that little oval stone, the pieces you had left in your hand were sure to have edges sharper than razors. Bond had always been an obsidian stone, it sounded like – dark and graceful on a grand scale, deadliness hidden at his core – but Vesper had put a hammer to him, and only a man made of scalpel sharp pieces had walked away from that.

“I’m not telling you this because I want to deter you from him,” M continued, “Although perhaps I should. Up until recently, I would have told anyone interested in Bond as anything more than a quick and good fuck that he has a heart made of razors, and he stopped loving things ages ago.” M’s assessment was blunt and without pity, as befitted a head of MI6. But then she cocked her head slightly, and added with a shrewd look at Q, as if she couldn’t figure him out, “But he seems interested in  _you_ , and I haven’t seen that in years. I’m not sure what to make of that. Regardless, I felt it was past time that you knew this. You are dismissed.”

Still reeling from the whirlwind meeting that he honestly had never expected, the Quartermaster stood automatically, movements wooden. “Who else knows this?” he had to ask.

M’s face was unreadable again, but her answer was telling, “Just you and myself know the entirety of the story. Don’t misuse this information.”

“I won’t,” Q promised sincerely. He could feel his brain going over the information, turning it around gently like a prismatic sculpture in new light. “I value 007 as an agent…and also as a person, vexing as that person may be,” he admitted carefully after a moment. “Seeing as I’m going to be stuck with him for an unknown amount of time now, I’m probably going to need to understand him a bit better anyway,” Q tried to finish with a joke, then turned to leave.

“Just so you know, I don’t think that Bond regrets what happened. With Vesper,” M called just as Q was reaching for the door, her voice level. She had that mother-wolf look again, and Q truly began to appreciate how driven M was to defend her agents – even if she sometimes had to also turn around and send them to their deaths. It was a tricky balance, but this woman met the challenge unhesitantly and without restraint. “Don’t pity him. It won’t get you very far.”

Q’s brows beetled, truly not understanding. In a perplexed tone, he replied, “I know. I don’t see any more reason to pity him than to pity the guns he uses – both are liberally abused, I admit, but both do the job and do it fabulously. There’s nothing to pity.”

M, in one of the rare instances that Q had ever seen, smiled. “Good luck, Quartermaster. I hope to see you back inside MI6 soon, when this is all sorted out.”

~^~

Q’s hand had been in his pocket ever since he’d left M’s office, holding the tiny lump he’d noticed when he’d bumped the edge of the chair while leaving. It had done quite a lot to turn his mood from thoughtful and introspective to rather homicidal.

As if waiting for the explosion that he’d had a hand in causing, 007 was only a few hallways down, leaning laxly against the wall with his hands braced unconcernedly behind it. All that the harmless pose served to do was allow the Quartermaster to walk right up to him until Q was practically standing on Bond’s toes. Glaring firmly, Q placed a loosely closed fist right under 007’s nose without any hesitation. “What is this?” Q demanded in a no-nonsense voice.

007 looked blandly at Q’s angry expression for a few seconds, then leisurely dropped his eyes to the smaller man’s hand. After another few seconds of calculated length, the maddening agent grunted, “I’m not a mind-reader, Q.”

“And yet I bet you could tell me, right now, everything that was just said behind closed doors in M’s office,” Q retorted, then gave up on making the agent talk and instead presented the evidence by unfolding his fingers and revealing the same small device that Bond had played with back in Q-branch earlier. “You bugged me.”

Still for all appearances unbothered by Q’s apparent temper and serious encroachment on his personal space, Bond let the silence stretch just far enough to be rebellious. Q wasn’t breaking, though, and continued to wait with the evidence between the two of them. Putting on a mutinous expression and narrowing his blue eyes, Bond replied eventually, “And where’s your proof, Quartermaster?”

“I know my tech, 007. This was in my duffel-bag last I looked, and you’ve got the best sleight-of-hand in MI6. I can put two-and-two together.”

No answer from 007. His eyes had gone cool and aloof, and he’d apparently clammed up. He was still allowing Q to stand with barely inches between them, however, untroubled by the combative posture or Q’s clearly unhappy frown. It was so rare to see Bond in such an undefended posture as he was now, with his hands still tucked away behind him instead of ready to go for his gun. If anything, he was rather relaxed, and Q found his temper fading instead to curiosity, and then to understanding.

Q cocked his head, inspecting that handsome mask Bond called a face. “You really wanted to listen in on my talk with M, didn’t you?” he asked in a far less combative tone.

Again, no response. Merely blue eyes that tracked every minute movement Q made, calm and remote as a mountain lake. It was as good as a confession to the smaller man, who had come to recognize so many of Bond’s little quirks and tendencies, the way he hid things so well and yet was so transparent sometimes that Q wondered if it could be anything but purposeful.

This time, it seemed as though Bond – who never seemed to care or fear for anything – had been intensely interested in finding out how Q had taken the story about a woman with invisible iron claws and a man made of razor blades.

“Why don’t you just  _ask_?!” Q whispered with confounded sympathy, shaking his head in wonder at all of this. Then, because he couldn’t see any other, better way to respond to this confusing man, the Quartermaster took hold of the situation in both hands and closed the distance to catch Bond’s mouth with a sudden, impulsive kiss.

There were about a million negative ways in which 007 could have reacted. As a 00-agent, he was trained to react to surprises with caution at best, violence at worst, and Q knew that Bond tended towards the latter side of the equation. When Q’s mouth pressed to his, however, the agent tensed just enough for it to be perceptible, but he otherwise didn’t move. His hands stayed behind his body, his back remained pressed idly to the wall. The only point of contact was on his mouth, and he moved his lips softly against Q’s, tongue snaking out encouragingly even as Q felt himself drawn in.

Q pulled back, breathing faster and feeling his pulse already in his ears, just before the kiss could get intense. Those uncanny blue eyes were still watching him, alight now with some internal fire that enthralled even as it promised to burn. Q hitched his computer bag strap a bit higher up on his shoulder and stepped back, unconsciously touching his tongue to his lower lip where he could still feel the faintest impression of teeth, although he couldn’t even remember 007 biting him. “You always think that you have to get what you want by stealth – by lying and tricking the answer out of me,” Q said, but without any anger. If the bespectacled young man hadn’t been working at MI6 where dysfunction was the name of the game for dangerous spies, perhaps he would have been less understanding. “Normal people, though, like me, would prefer if you just asked if you wanted to know something.” Q paused, still feeling the contact of lips on his mouth, which he’d initiated for once. His memory brought up dozens of other impressions, all including warm commanding hands on his body and a mouth making promises on his skin. “Or if you ever wanted something.”

Feeling that he’d given Bond all the information he needed to, Q turned and left, directing his feet to the parking lot. They both had days ahead of them that promised to be rough and trying…wherever it was that Bond was taking them.

~^~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a lot of chatter about what I should do about Bond's past: Vesper/no Vesper, always psychotic/newly acquired trait/result of trauma... So I sort of combined everything - there was a Vesper, but it didn't pan out exactly like 'Casino Royale'; Bond was always a cold and dangerous, but he was sharpened further into the blue-eyed monster he is now. 
> 
> Hopefully, like Q, this is a backstory that everyone can contend with (~u^)


	16. Liar. Always.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to leave MI6 and head off to battle... At the moment, that battle is very quiet, contained mostly in little lies and little secrets, all tangled together. What can a person expect with these two? ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry sorry sorry for the long absence! I'm updating two other stories while also writing two very fun gift-fics on the side (I regret nothing, except my slow posting). Hopefully you enjoy this chapter! I've got another almost done, so more should come with far less wait this time :)

~^~

 

It perhaps shouldn’t have been entirely surprising that Bond was able to act utterly normal when Q met up with him in the carpark – or, at least, as normal as he ever got, with his habit of sleeping with people he intended to ruin later, or lying to people in the same voice he used to make friends with them. He was using that lying persona now, with the suave smile and disarming posture, all of which Q took with good grace, because a well-behaved Bond was a well-behaved Bond, and there was no real purpose in caring whether it was sincere or not. 

Of course, because the man liked to throw a wrench into plans, he moved past the car they had been assigned, and instead approached a white Aston Martin that Q had sworn was still in the basement of Q-branch.  “Problem, Quartermaster?”

‘Of course there is, you smarmy bastard,’ Q thought, but outwardly he just gave a dry look before pointing to the car behind them.  “Are you going to at least return the keys to that one?”

Bond’s grin widened a fraction.  “What makes you suspect I have the keys to that vehicle anyway?” he lied flawlessly. It was beautiful to watch.

“The same intuition that makes me certain that you somehow have the keys to this one,” Q deadpanned back, already circling to the passenger side, because he’d long since given up arguing with Bond on small matters such as this. The door was remotely unlocked a second before his hand touched the handle, leaving Q to wonder when stealing cars from MI6 had become a ‘small matter’ in regards to his curious life alongside 007 of late.  He slipped some of his bags in before moving to put others in the boot.  “Now, if you could please at least put the keys to our assigned car in the glove compartment, we’ll have one less transgression to answer for later.” His things packed away in the Aston Martin now, Q took up his place in the passenger seat and merely let silence follow his sentence, and an expectant, raised eyebrow. 

Shockingly, after a long, frost-painted moment in which Q found himself the sole object in the path of glacial-blue, utterly emotionless eyes, 007 flashed an indulgent smile and turned smoothly.  He proceeded to do exactly as Q had asked of him, and if that wasn’t a miracle, Q didn’t know what was.  The Quartermaster sagged back in his seat, puffing out a sigh that rustled the bangs of his hair, although he quickly grew alert again because Bond was returning. It paid to be alert around the man, although Q figured he’d gotten past the point where he spent every third thought pondering whether 007 was as likely to kill him as look at him. “There.  Happy?” Bond said with forced pleasantness and a smile that looked like it broke his face a little.  It was almost funny, although beneath it, Q could still see that brutally efficient light of calculation – the intelligence that 007 had hidden so well for so long.

“Almost. Tell me, how did you get a hold of this car?” Q had to ask, because 007 was a bloody security risk.

“It appeared as if by magic,” was the smooth and instantaneous answer. Q scoffed because Bond wasn’t trying in the slightest to hide the lie, which should have been insulting but was instead oddly comforting.  Bond could lie like it was the only language he knew, when he wanted to – but if he were ever putting effort into it, that meant he had a target he was trying to outmaneuver.

The knowledge that Bond was merely playing with him – a large cat batting at a mouse, claws sheathed – had Q asking boldly, “What’s your real I.Q.?

007 had just turned on the engine, and Q was watching for the flinch that went through his athletic body for just a second.  Then narrowed blue eyes turned to him, no doubt recalling that this question had been asked before.  Instead of pointing that out, however, Bond played along.  “Isn’t it in my file?” 

The innocent tone sounded as real as the leather seat beneath Q’s hands, but for once, Q had the facts to prove that Bond was purposefully dodging the question. It was odd, really – one of these days, Bond was going to tell him that the sun was green so convincingly that the Quartermaster was going to have to look out the window. Knowing his luck (and knowing Bond’s stubborn lying skills), he’d then have a bit of a crisis as he looked at the blazing, white-gold sun and still couldn’t find fault in the continued, chuckled lies being whispered in his ears.  Q shook the thought off forcefully, finding that he could imagine that scenario all too…vividly.  “There’s a lot in your files, not all of it true.  I’m pretty sure that one of the things your file has wrong is your I.Q.”

They were pulling out of the carpark now, 007 maneuvering the car smoothly. He was smirking teasingly even as Q finished more musingly, giving in to the urge to look out the window and just say what was going through his head, “It says something that even your file can’t bother to be truthful one-hundred percent of the time.”

“I think that you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone or anything that is truthful that often,” 007 chided back, not in the least offended.  In fact, his voice was rather calm, as if this were a truth in and of itself, one that he’d perhaps often said within his head. Then, still in that unruffled and unexpectedly relaxed tone, the agent added, “Except maybe you.”

Q turned abruptly from the window, which was now showing more than just the dreary concrete walls of the carpark.  He gave off a little laugh.  “Pardon me?”

But Bond seemed to have conveniently forgotten that they were having this conversation, and no matter how much Q tried to get back to it, the agent wouldn’t answer.

 

~^~

 

“Q, I need you to lay a bread-trail.”

Bond’s voice roused Q from the doze he’d drifted into about an hour back, when he’d given up on trying to get information out of a world-class spy. Blinking a bit muzzily and having to resettle his glasses, the Quartermaster sat up and ran the sentence through his head again until his brain woke up and all of the words settled into place. “I assume we’re not talking literally.”

One corner of Bond’s mouth ticked up, even as his eyes stayed on the road. “I’m speaking electronically. I can take us off the map so fast that not even M’s best could find us-”  Which was disturbing all in its own right.  Q wondered briefly what had kept Bond from disappearing like that before, at least in a fashion more permanent than the temporary stunts he pulled in which people laid bets on whether he was really dead this time or not. “-But since I promised that I’d solve the problem and bring MI6’s youngest Quartermaster back, that’s not an option.”

“What are you thinking?”  Already, Q’s mind was whirling through the possibilities.  He was smart enough that, when 007 answered, the reply didn’t take him by surprise.

“I want to make it very clear that nothing good comes of hunting the Quartermaster of MI6,” was the flat, lethal reply, as callous and dangerous as a frozen wasteland. This was Bond’s cold side, his psychopathic side: at moments like this, it was easy to believe that he didn’t possess emotions at all, merely painted, fake things that he pulled on like masks and discarded like shed skins.  While many agents would have said this sentence with anger, Bond was worse, saying it with nothing at all – not even regret.  “Your job is to lay a trail that only the most threatening of your criminal admirers can follow, and my job will be to play the jaws of the trap they’ll get the pleasure of walking into.”

Q shivered as if the interior of the car had turned physically cold. “Ah. I get to pay bait then. Lovely,” he said dryly and with more lightness than he felt. 

“Scared, Quartermaster?” 007 baited him, flashing a grin that did little to hide the watchful calculations of his sharp eyes. 

“Scared is what I’ll be when we reach our destination, not before,” Q countered deftly, already digging around in the bag at his feet for his laptop. They were already far out of London, in the countryside, but Q was more than capable of creating quite a stir in the cyberworld even from the middle of nowhere – he hadn’t gotten the job of Quartermaster because of his pretty face, after all. “Which is where, exactly?”

“Where what?”

“Our destination. You still haven’t told me or anyone but yourself where we’re going,” Q murmured back with a distractedly irked glower, at least half of his attention already on his computer screen as it booted up.  He added, as an afterthought, “And stop being obtuse, it doesn’t suit you.”

He thought he heard a low, pleased chuckle over the purr of the engine, but wasn’t sure. “We’re going to Skyfall.”

That got something to click in Q’s brain, a little thought being triggered. Immediately, he lifted his head, letting his eyes unfocus from the road unrolling before them while he went through the library of information stored in his head.  “Skyfall.  In your files…” At the beginning of his files. So far back that Q had just been skimming by that point, because he hadn’t thought it mattered.

“My home,” Bond surprised him by actually answering.  It was so odd to hear the man actually offering up information this easily that Q looked over, visually checking him over for head-injuries. Instead, all he saw was what he usually did: suave power and expertly packaged lethality, striking sapphire eyes that rarely ever warmed up and a body that 007 clearly liked to use, both to seduce and to overpower.  He was smiling slightly, mildly, creating a disarming expression that worked so perfectly that it was a wonder anyone ever saw the predator beneath coming. Q saw a silk tie on a steel tiger, and all of it was somehow deciding to reveal secrets to him. “I grew up in Scotland, at Skyfall Lodge.  Since I’ve left it, the gamekeeper Kincade has been watching over it.  He knows we’re coming, but I still suspect he’ll be surprised to see me again.”

This idea of Bond actually having a normal life before MI6 left Q feeling embarrassingly like he was floundering, or as if he’d been standing perfectly well but had now been shoved so that he was flailing and barely keeping his balance on one foot. It was hard to comprehend a place where the infamous 007 had been a child, where he’d grown up and conceivably had parents like any other – good god, did he have siblings? Q had a photographic memory, and he was recalling this segment of Bond’s files right now, but all it had said was that Skyfall Lodge was 007’s place of origin, and that he now had no living relatives. 

Today was just full of surprises. 

Clearing his throat and bending his head over his computer again, Q murmured, “I’ll set up an electronic trail of breadcrumbs that will weed the idiotic crimelords from the ones we actually need to walk into this trap.  Hopefully that will leave a very small number of candidates.”

Purposefully, Q was moving their conversation back into neutral territory. Therefore, he was surprised when 007 followed after him.  “I’m shocked, Q – you’re not going to ask even one nosy question?” the agent queried jovially.

Seeing right past the lightness to the razor-sharp intellect waiting beneath – taking apart Q’s responses, trying to flush out more information – Q typed while replying, “You never answer nosy questions.  Not truthfully, anyway.  Anything you’ve ever told me – ever told anyone – has been by your own choice, so I’m just refusing to play the game, this once.”  Instead of sounding stroppy about it, Q actually sounded slightly apologetic. After all, these verbal games with 007 had long since become more of a challenge than a threat, and it was rare for them to be focused on 007’s personal life rather than Q’s.

“Maybe this will be the one time I’ll answer,” Bond volleyed back, still refusing the give up his fun.  The little smirk was still nestled at the corner of his mouth, a teasing ghost of a real expression.

“And maybe setting up this fake trail takes up most of my concentration.”

“Liar.”

“Okay, that was a lie,” Q admitted.  Even in a moving car, far away from the comfort of his domain in Q-branch with all of its technological amenities, it wasn’t that hard for the Quartermaster to do the job laid out for him.  “But fine, if it will make you happy: How long did you live at Skyfall?”

“Until age eleven,” Bond answered immediately and ungrudgingly.  It was a safe question: unless his files were once again full of fallacies, it was there. 

That started a conversation that ate up the hours while the car ate up the miles. Q still heavily suspected that the answers he was getting were doctored and tweaked, so that they all sounded light and mild – fluffy-kitten answers where Q suspected a grim tiger beneath. Some were meant to startle him, some to distract him, reaffirming the fact that 007 was the king of avoiding the truth. Still, Bond was talking, and half-truths were still quite a leap from whole lies.

Regardless, the chatter was surprisingly easy to indulge in, and the conversation wasn’t distracting enough to keep Q from working.  Q kept his fingers moving over his keyboard like an instrument keeping a swift beat to Bond’s meandering, elusive song.  Many of the questions were like the first, the answer already known to Q, but it kept everything relaxed and easy.

For once, Bond didn’t ask Q a single question.  Apparently, after this long spent needling at the Quartermaster and prying secrets out of him like a honed knife seeking the heart, Bond had decided in his own odd way that it was Q’s turn to ask the questions.  This was the closest Q had ever seen to 007 playing fair, and he doubted anyone would believe him if he said so later. 

At some point, Q drifted off.  It was going to be a long drive, one that Bond seemed content to shoulder – considering Bond’s distrustful nature, he probably wouldn’t ask Q to drive while he slept, so Q took the opportunity himself.  It was more or less involuntary, really.  He put away his laptop at one point (having laid out a reasonably discriminating ‘bread crumb trail’ for anyone smart or dangerous enough to follow it), and talked for a bit longer while the autumn world flashed by.  The world was barren and cold-looking, everything painted in tans and faded brownish-greens, and Q was starting to feel the detachment from society like some sort of Velcro attachment in his soul being pulled slowly off. It never crossed his mind that he was tired until suddenly he was waking up again, curled against the window, glasses askew and the cold of the glass seeping into his head.

Blue eyes skipped over to him, skimmed him, then went back to the road.

Satisfied that Q was still healthy and hale, 007 was able to return to the job at hand.

 

~^~

 

Q was awake when they arrived at Skyfall lodge.  The place looked imposing, and as they drove up to the old stone building, it seemed as if every inch wound up something in Bond tighter and tighter. It wasn’t making him tense so much as it was making him increasingly alert. It was like watching a blade being honed with every pass of a whetstone, until the sunlight bled off its edge like a fiery, liquid blaze.  It was almost too much to look at, and Q held his tongue while 007 eyed his old home and brought the car to a stop.  The efforts of the sun to get through the cloud-cover had everything painted in shades of grey or a tarnished, aged sort of gold. 

“I told Kincade to go back home.  He watches the place, but has a missus in the nearby town,” Bond explained without prompting, his eyes still holding that predatory keenness that would have better fit a hawk or a wolf than a man – a merciless, thrumming energy that lived in his blue eyes and his trained muscles.  He opened his door and swung out of the car all in one easy movement.  When Q followed suit more slowly and warily, he found Bond still watching his childhood home, slowly working to shutter his expression but unable to hide the new focus that had diffused throughout every inch of him.  “Considering the trouble that should be heading our way in the next day or so, I figured ordering him to clear the area would be the considerate thing to do.” Bond shrugged, slowly relaxing in this new-yet-old environment.  “Kincade’s handy with a gun, but not as much as I am.”  With that final word on the subject, 007 stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and hunched his shoulders, striding towards the house. Pausing only to grab his laptop bag (he felt naked without it), Q likewise braced himself against the cold and followed. 

Looking around, he could only think that this place was about as off-the-map as one could get.  Even with the distant town Bond spoken of, this place felt as if humanity had shoved it far away, so much so that Bond and Q may as well have been the last people on earth out here with the biting wind and faded grass.

Once he got inside, it was better.  Q was half-surprised that the ancient-looking place had electricity, but a lightbulb turned on when 007 flipped a switch, and at least the wind was cut out. “Still bloody cold in here,” Q couldn’t help but point out, suddenly wishing for the warm atmosphere of the car. He buffed his hands up and down his arms, fingers pale against the material and tense from the cold.

Bond didn’t answer, but considering all of the talking he’d done in the car, maybe he’d literally overshot his verbal allotment for the day.  He seemed to have different categories, though, and while sensible, sincere talk was used up now, the agent still had his more impish side. “You’re just never satisfied, are you?” the blonde-haired man smiled over his shoulder as he walked further in, checking out the place but clearly having a destination in mind.

“I slept in the car last night without complaining.”

“I distinctly remember you complaining.”

“Liar.”

“Always.”

With Bond’s cheeky last word still hanging in the air like the grin of the Cheshire, the two of them entered a room at the back of the house that contained an antique gun-case.  007 seemed to ignore it for a moment, but only until he had hunted up the key, cunningly hidden on the opposite side of the room but clearly standing out in Bond’s memory. Once unlocked, the tall case revealed a veritable arsenal, and even the Quartermaster had to stand back a moment and just blink.  Bond was grinning an appreciative smile that never warmed up above ‘glacial,’ one of his regular looks, the kind that always made Psych nervous.  Q moved forward slowly, footsteps a little wary, but 007 didn’t seem to have a problem sharing his toys with Q.  “Kincade had been on the brink of selling them, but I said I needed them.”

“Did you say for what?” Q asked, worrying for a moment if this gamekeeper was going to be a security risk – thanks to MI5, they already had enough information leaks. Bond had spoken more about Kincade than he had his parents, but it was always impossible to tell exactly what 007 felt for a person, if he felt anything at all in his razor-blade heart.

“Big-game hunting,” Bond smirked lazily back, still eying the weaponry appreciatively. Then he glanced at Q, one eyebrow rising.  “Are you familiar with these?”

Hazel eyes flicked over the mass of weaponry, labeling things with a speed and accuracy that most people were incapable of even at their best.  Some were quite old, while some looked as if they must have been acquired in recent years – which either meant that this Kincade fellow was a gun enthusiast, or some part of Bond had wanted Skyfall to be a safe place to return to, and had been sending stock here from time to time. “Yes.”

“Really?” Bond’s voice carried a mixture of disbelief and something more impressed, blended together until they were hard to distinguish.  One of the agent’s tanned hands stroked down a long barrel, as he pointed out, “MI6 doesn’t carry these.”

“Because they’re illegal,” Q replied, giving Bond an unimpressed look in return, facing the agent candidly.  “I may not have built or handled versions of all of these, but I’ve studied designs and read up on them.  Besides that, you bloody agents tend to tangle with illegal weapons with alarming regularity, so I’ve had to brush up on a lot of these.  Before you ask, though…”  Q chewed the inside of his cheek, then sighed and admitted, “No, I can’t shoot all of them. As Quartermaster, it’s expected of me to understand the intricacies of any weapon you agents may get a hold of, but my experience in the firing range is limited to the more basic handguns.”

“I wasn’t going to ask you to shoot anything, actually,” Bond surprised him by saying lightly, and when Q turned, Bond’s little twitch of a grin said that he was proud of outthinking his Quartermaster for a second there. Instead of making a game of it, though, he tipped his head at the weapons and corrected, “If you had knowledge in handling and dismantling them, I’d be much obliged if you could make sure they’re all in good order.  They haven’t been used in awhile.”

The prospect of having something constructive to do was more tantalizing than Q had expected. Suddenly, he realized that this was real, this was happening, and Skyfall was going to be the epicenter of a miniature warzone before long.  Q felt a kick of adrenalin behind his sternum, hot and uncomfortable before it spread like a painful buzz through his system, but having a task kept him focused. He nodded, slipping his computer bag off his shoulders to lean it against the wall.  “You have tools, I imagine?”

“In the car. I’ll unload and then start checking over the house a bit more thoroughly, and you can get started on this.” Tasks focused 007, too, Q knew, and without dawdling or any hint of mischief, the larger man turned on his heel and headed back outside with a determined, smooth gait. 

“Let the games begin,” Q sighed to himself, as he cracked his knuckles in front of the waiting gun-case, all of its denizens staring out at him with patient, gun-metal eyes. 

 

~^~

 

The materials necessary for good gun-maintenance were the first things that Bond unloaded, and he dropped them off with Q without a word, then disappeared again. Presumably, he was busying himself with unpacking other things, but Q wouldn’t have blamed him if he simply wanted a moment to himself to check out his old haunt.  00-agents were men who lived in the present, because the past was full of hard decisions, kill-orders, and necessary lies – and the future always promised to be brutal and short.  007 was no different, if not more extreme: Q didn’t think that Bond paused to think about the past or future at all.  The man lived comfortably and solidly in the present, which had the benefit of meaning he was never distracted, never off-balance.  He could kill better men just because those men were never perfectly able to block out the ghosts whispering behind them or the fears waiting ahead of them.  One thing Q had learned quickly in MI6 was that skill didn’t always win a battle – focus did. And even memories were distractions.

Therefore, Q hoped that Bond put some of those memories to rest.  Even if there was something broken in Bond (or missing altogether) that made it impossible for Bond to dwell on past events, it would probably do him good to simply wander the place he’d grown up in – if only to familiarize himself again.  Q thought on these things as his hands went through the automatic motions of taking the various guns apart and making sure they all worked.  The procedures were familiar and soothing, and when 007 stepped into the doorway of the room, the Quartermaster was able to say dryly without looking up, “It’s a novelty, you know, to see weapons you own that aren’t in tiny broken pieces or fresh out of a lake.”

“I could always arrange something like that, if you’d prefer,” 007 smirked back, the low roll of his voice filling the quiet room with ease. 

Q put his work down and lifted his head to give Bond a gimlet look, and only then shivered and realized that he was cold.  Almost in surprise, he looked around to realize that he’d taken his coat off to better work.  The house was still nearly as chill as the outside had been.  “Heater not working?”

“It’s an old house,” Bond said by way of halfhearted defense, leaning a shoulder against the doorway and crossing his arms.  His own coat was still on, but his face looked flushed and alive from moving about in the brisk highland cold out of doors.  “I’ve got a fire going in the stove, and that should heat up at least most of the house pretty quickly.”

“No electric heating?” Q asked, eyebrows jumping up under his hair.

“Q, we’re lucky this place has electricity at all,” the agent reminded, and Q quickly hid his look of dismay, because Bond seemed to find it comic. Still, the agent was on his best behavior enough to mollify, “We do have hot water, though, and Kincade was kind enough to shake the dust out of two bedrooms.”

Beginning to realize that he really was a ‘city mouse,’ Q relaxed as he was assured of at least a few amenities.  Sleeping in the car and eating on the road had him feeling grungy and in desperate need of a wash. He glanced at the nearest window, noting the somber silver sky before glancing down at his watch. “Just past three.” They’d arrived at Skyfall relatively early in the day, but that still meant that Q had been cleaning weaponry for a few hours. 

Before Q could pause and take the time to think about what that weaponry was for – an upcoming confrontation between the criminal world’s best and MI6’s smartest and most merciless – Bond stepped forward and replied, “Just enough time to get some more work done.”  He moved around Q to one of the small handguns that the Quartermaster had cleaned first, a .38 Special. 

Although 007’s hand was merely resting on it, as if feeling the metal of the barrel like a cold reminder of death under his fingertips, Q knew that the man could grab, lift, and aim it in seconds.  Behind hooded eyes, Q merely watched, sitting back in his chair and subtly stretching out the kinks in his back.  “And by ‘work’ I assume you mean testing to see what my weapon’s training is like?”

“Good guess, Quartermaster, but no,” Bond surprised him, hand leaving the .38 Special, his next steps taking him back to the case, where he soon retrieved a belt holster from another section of the case.  He explained as he checked it for any weathering from its time in storage, eyes on his task but words self-assured, “I already know what you shoot and what you average at the firing range.”

“You broke into my files,” Q guessed.  The disturbing part was that he’d _encrypted_ those files.

Bond smirked. “Again,” he added.

Q gave up and rolled his eyes, but came forward to accept the holster and attach it to his belt, accepting ammunition as well before carefully holstering the Special. He honestly should have guessed that Bond had done his homework on as simple a thing as Q’s weapons’ knowledge – in fact, considering 007’s unchecked paranoia, that was probably what he’d stuck his nose into first, before even meeting the new Quartermaster of MI6. The part of Q that wanted to be offended at the breech of privacy was battling with the part of him that was secretly pleased, however, because 007’s voice sounded respectful, and he wasn’t doubting the smaller man’s skills.  “All right then, if we’re not going out to shoot at tin cans,” Q returned briskly to the present, pulling on his coat as the chill in the air caught him full-force.  Some of the chill seemed to be under his skin already, though – and it wasn’t from the weather. He could already feel trouble closing in.  “Then what do you have in mind?”

Stepping forward one smooth stride until he was in Q’s personal space just a touch, Bond straightened out Q’s coat with a few idle pulls of his hands. The plume of his breath in the still-cold house tangled around the clouded air that puffed out of Q’s mouth. “What do you know about explosives?” he asked next.

Once again Q’s eyebrows lifted behind his glasses, disappearing into his wavy, tangled hair.  In a flash, he saw where this was going.  “Even more than I know about guns,” was his even, dry reply, “I dare say, even more than you.”

The man who blew things up on a regular occasion just smirked and headed immediately for a bag that he’d deposited just outside the door. 

 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we're starting to see a bit of 'James' and why he likes Q. And now we're on Bond's home turf, too, and you can bet he'll defend it!!
> 
> This chapter was going to be named 'Silk Tie on a Steel Tiger,' but I figure that this fit better ;) After all, that's pretty much the point of this whole fic, isn't it...?


	17. Gravel-Rough and Velvet-Soft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Q and Bond are at Skyfall, it's time to prepare for the party a bit...and to have a few misunderstandings, and a few sort-of-apologies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, look at me, putting together another chapter :3 Once again, thanks to my incredible editor, the mistakes in this chapter should be far, far less than my usual allotment! Sometimes I have no idea why spellcheck didn't just scream at me...

The next hours were spent booby-trapping more or less the entire house – only the most internal rooms were spared, namely the kitchen and bedrooms. Q hadn’t been bluffing in the slightest about his knowledge of explosive devices, and his ability to identify, understand, and dismantle them was lethally on par with his ability to do the reverse: imagine and build them.  Bond could construct a few, mostly simplistic but brutal things, but soon he left the Quartermaster to his work as he crafted deadly things as a man would sculpt a piece of art. 

Deadly art, of course.  However, always in the back of Q’s mind was the fact that there were people out to get him right now, and while they most certainly wanted him alive for the knowledge in his head, the last thing Q wanted was to be caught.  He also didn’t want to run forever, and so he shucked off his coat again as the house finally warmed up, and wove together wires and created his own ingenious detonators. 

It felt as though he were some warrior-smith of old, hammering together his own armor – or an architect, building a castle and slowly making it impenetrable. Each little trap, little bomb, was a link of chainmail or another brick set in place, and Q felt better and more sure of himself.  Soon he went outside, finding 007 already there, setting larger traps.  Q was unfamiliar with hiding such things in the outdoors, but 007 could be a surprisingly good teacher when he put his mind to it, provided that his student be as quick on the up-take as the Quartermaster, who only really had to be told things once before he at least had the concept logged in his mind like an informational file. 

“I think we’ve done enough for today,” Bond said after some time, standing unexpectedly, “We should have enough of a head-start on trouble that no one will be here before tomorrow afternoon at the latest, unless your fans are smarter than we realize.”

“They’d have to be smarter than me to follow our trail any faster,” Q replied tartly, his professional pride offended at the idea of someone figuring out his work any sooner than he wanted them to, “I truly only left breadcrumbs. In fact, I bet that ninety-percent of the people after me still think I’m in London at your flat.” He realized, suddenly, that the sun was nearly set, turning the clouds to a dirty pewter but somehow bronzing the dead and brittle grass, creating an eerie, metallic world. Q shivered and looked around him suddenly, realizing that he’d once again left his coat behind, this time in the house somewhere.  When he got focused on tasks like this, little things like eating, sleeping, or keeping himself from freezing were pushed to the very back of his mind.

“M’s got people sitting on it.”  Bond had thought of this, clearly – that was his job.  He reached down and hooked a hand under Q’s bicep, pulling him up with an easy application of strength.  The hand lingered, smoothing up the back of Q’s arm, to his shoulder, and across his left shoulder-blade like a heated brand, so warm compared to Q’s chilled skin beneath his cardigan.  When Q looked over, though, Bond’s attention was back on the house, proving that this was another absentminded caress.  “Come on.  Kincade left some food in the larder, and we should get you inside before you bloody freeze.” With padding, stalking steps he turned around, and Q followed him back to the house with one more glance at the flat, desolate-looking landscape.  Already, darkness was falling, sucking away that last gold-edged light that had briefly lent a sort of artificial light to everything.  Q paused to eye the Aston Martin, its whiteness pearly in the encroaching night, and pondered ways to weaponize it safely…

“Come along, Quartermaster,” Bond’s voice stroked gravel-rough and velvet-soft around the shell of Q’s right ear, and then one hand was wrapped around his arm again, this time coaxing him more firmly towards the house. As if dismissed by the turning of Q’s back, the sun sank away, leaving everything shadowed except for spikes of gold that was the hair at the back of Bond’s head, and the cobalt gleam of his eyes where the light could barely touch.  Even in shadow, his face had hard, handsome angles.  The black of his coat-collar drawn up around his neck only emphasized it, and Q would have been more distracted had his attention not been swiftly focused on getting inside and out of the cold. 

“The house had better have warmed up by now,” Q breathed around a shiver, abruptly deciding that this was an idiotic plan, because it was cold up here away from civilization. Wrapping his arms around himself and rubbing his arms bristly, Q picked up his pace until he was unabashedly trotting to get to the door.  “Or I’m going to be dead of hypothermia before anyone even gets here!”

“You’ve the one who can’t keep track of your own coat,” Bond huffed back, catching the door as Q swept it open and slipped inside like a minnow.  Thankfully, the house was notably warmer than outside, if not by much.  It was also a lot darker, though, and Q fumbled around for the light-switch he’d seen Bond reach for earlier, still shivering and dancing from foot to foot in an effort to regain some body-heat.  “Here, let me,” Bond said, all warm-honey smoothness, and before Q could react or protest, the entire length of the agent was pressed up against his back. Q had thought himself immune to Bond’s little ‘surprises,’ but apparently he wasn’t, at least not when there was also the added shock of temperature difference – the edges of Bond’s now-open coat fluttered against Q’s sides as he fit neatly in between, 007’s jumper apparently doing little to withhold the tremendous body heat he was able to produce. 

007’s hand reached past Q and found the light-switch.  It was more-or-less right in front of him, but Bond had taken advantage of the situation with his usual agility, as he was trained to do. 007 probably couldn’t pass up a chance of gaining the advantage, but now he wasn’t technically working, and Q wasn’t an enemy agent.  The two just stood there for long moments, poorly lit by a distant electric bulb, Q wondering if it were possible to get singed from human contact.  He stood in place, very still, and almost felt like he was waiting for it when 007’s right hand slipped around his ribcage, settling down in a loose hold over the Quartermaster’s stomach.  The way Bond’s hand relaxed was distracting, fingertips dragging, even while the rest of Bond seemed to ease as if his new posture were natural and right to him.  Unexpectedly, 007 shattered the silence with a low murmur, “Do you want food, Quartermaster?” He was close enough that his breath fanned Q’s temple, and a subtle shift of Bond’s body brought Q into abrupt awareness of all of him – both of them – of where they touched and how 007 had folded around him with his left hand still braced easily against the wall by the light switch.  Bond finished his question with a pitch that dropped into a different octave, as easy to take in as a narcotic, “Or something else?”

Q blinked in surprise, but to his credit, didn’t jump or leap away as if singed. It took only a spilt-second to realize that this was Bond merely being his usual intimidating, suggestive self – the words were sex in a bottle, but 007 hadn’t moved.  His body didn’t match them.  The hand remained as relaxed as a sleeping cat over the flat surface of Q’s stomach, and even thought Bond’s head was hanging next to his ear, the Quartermaster knew that it was merely watching him – testing him, gauging him, cataloguing everything with a sniper’s eye. 

Considering the bold act Q had perpetrated in the halls of MI6, he realized that he could probably react in any way he wanted at this moment, and 007 would neither be surprised nor bothered.  Bond had gotten up to far worse shenanigans on the eve of dangerous encounters than dragging his own Quartermaster into his bed.  The fact that there was no ‘dragging’ occurring, however, nor anything inappropriate besides 007’s admittedly distracting bedroom-voice, made Q collect his thoughts before answering. 

And, while he thought, he saw absolutely no reason to spurn the offered bodyheat. He figured that he’d gotten past the point when standing this close to MI6’s most dangerous agent bothered him.

“I’m not sure what I’m looking for,” Q finally said softly and truthfully, eyes fixed on Bond’s left hand.  He traced the little scars, the tendons across his knuckles, the capable, strong fingers.

Bond got a bit more daring – perhaps he was behaving himself, but even good behavior for him had a hint of devilry in it.  His hand slid further across Q’s middle, until there was an arm of corded muscles around him, and Bond slipped his mouth down to press it against the tendons of Q’s neck.  “Can I help you with that, perhaps?”

“Maybe,” Q admitted, still not swayed but still not quite distracted either, from the analytical voice in his head that said it knew why Bond was doing this, and that most of it was a thick fog of lies and truth too mixed up to be intelligible. “It depends on if you’re offering this advice as James or as 007.”

There was a growl that was thick with temper, a low-burning flash.  Bond’s words were pressed to the column of Q’s spine as he transferred his open mouthed kisses like a half-formed collar, reaching now to encircle the back of his neck.  “You always say that like there’s a difference.”

“Isn’t there?”

“No,” was the sudden and stubborn refusal.  Teeth scraped sensitive skin just behind Q’s ear.

“In that case, I think I should go and see what’s to be had in the kitchen.” And with that calm sentence, Q disentangled himself and walked away, not looking back and not paying any outward attention to the spy and assassin he’d left in his wake.

 

~^~

 

Q was fairly sure that Bond was actually angry with him.  This was a novelty, because the man lived to be untouchable, so maybe this was actually some sort of victory on Q’s part.  On the other side of that, though, Q had seen the results of Bond’s temper on other people, and the results were varied but generally unpleasant – anything from spreading rumors to personally carrying out a slow death. Then again, Bond also assigned his anger in a frankly ludicrous fashion.  Bond’s temper barely so much as twitched at people who actively tried to kill him, but the last time Q had seen someone spill something on one of his suits was probably one of the few times that Q had really seen true fury flexing its muscles. In other words, 007 got angry rarely, and with no real rhyme or reason behind those few occasions that normal people could interpret.

It was probably, therefore, a good sign that 007 was merely ignoring Q and making the kitchen a very uncomfortably silent place.

The stove was warming everything nice and warm, and regardless of whether or not Bond was actually irked at him, Q was ready to melt happily in his chair as the heat wrapped around him.  It was an old, black-iron stove, which was now happily devouring the wood Bond had supplied it with and beating back the Scottish chill.  Supper had been soup, the simple cook-out-of-a-can kind, although Q had never done that kind of thing without a microwave. 

Q considered asking if Bond had poisoned his, but figured that there was no point. If Bond wanted him dead, then MI6 would shortly be missing a Quartermaster – and Bond would probably even be able to lie and say that their criminal followers did, and return to his job at MI6 with none the wiser.

Those thoughts were fairly sobering, but surprisingly, they didn’t ruffle Q all that much. Maybe it was because he was quite played out and more stressed than he was letting on – and maybe it was because some part of him had decided that 007, for all that he could be as cold and lethal as a snake, wanted Q safe. 

“We should be safe until morning,” Bond said eventually, tone giving away nothing. If he hadn’t just been totally silent for the last hour, Q wouldn’t have thought anything was unusual at all. Blue eyes gave an efficient scan of the room, as if battening down the hatches at a glance.  “And some of those traps we laid should give us fair warning if I’m wrong about that.”  Q merely nodded, watching and listening, having nothing to add anyway. This was Bond’s show – his terrain. Q had rigged it so that it was practically one big land mine, but his skills were not naturally designed for fieldwork. Bond continued after a moment, when it was clear Q wasn’t going to say anything, “I’m going to shower. No promises about how much water we have.”  And with that, he shoved off from the kitchen counter, leaving the room to disappear down the nearby hall. “First bedroom’s mine, second’s yours,” his voice floated back, sounding slightly curt for the first time, like it sometimes did when he was pinned down and royally peeved at enemy agents for shooting at him.  It was really quite a lot of reaction for a man highly acclaimed to be deficient in the emotion category. 

“And that might have been a threat to leave me only cold water,” Q sighed to himself, “Joy.” He got up, breathing a sigh of relief he hadn’t known he’d been holding, and praised himself for surviving the evening with an unpredictable 00-agent of Bond’s particular history. Giving the dishes a cursory rinse (pausing briefly as he remembered Bond cleaning out the plates left in his sink, so long ago), Q left the kitchen, tentatively heading the way Bond had and hearing running water down the way.  His own room he found directly adjacent to the kitchen, the nearness to the stove lending the room a delightful coziness.  Q’s bags were already on the bed.

The next few minutes were spent…quietly.  Tensely. Aimlessly.  Q felt adrift but also tugged in a million directions as he replaced his clothing with softer sleep-clothes, shivering a little and wondering if the flannel top and pants would be sufficient to keep him warm. He took heart in the radiant heat of the nearby stove, and the layers of blankets on the bed. He waited exactly ten minutes after hearing the shower stop before leaving his room, easing into the hallway again and peering out.  It was empty, the bathroom door open and the interior dark.  Q took that as permission to use it himself, and wondered when he’d gotten so touchy about Bond’s privacy when the man blatantly had sex and lay around naked on camera during missions.  Q scowled at the man’s lack of propriety and shook his head, but stalked more determinedly towards the bathroom and the promise of a quick shower to remove the grime of the day.  He passed Bond’s room on the way, and in regards to the man’s lack of shame, he was not disappointed: the door was open a good hands’-span, and Q was just in time to see Bond slip free of his shirt.  Bond hadn’t bothered to turn on the light in his room, but the dim light in the hallway cast the ridges and curves of his defined muscles in sharp relief. Quickly, Q moved on, although he had to admit that his eyes lagged behind a bit.  A glint of blue told him that 007 wasn’t oblivious.

Miraculously, Bond had left him hot water, or at least enough for the short wash Q gave himself. His mind was too full of things and his body was too weary to consider how ancient and untrustworthy the whole set-up was, with a claw-foot bathtub and pipes that groaned and banged as they coughed up water.  By the time he’d finished and redressed in his pajamas, though, toweling his hair from dripping wetness merely to dampness, Q had come to a decision.  Shivering just a little and swearing as the cold floor nipped at his bare feet, Q walked, not to his room, but to the edge of Bond’s. The door was still partially open, the precaution of a paranoid man who liked to hear things coming. Those things were probably supposed to be intruders, but at the moment, it was only one restless Quartermaster.

“007?” Q asked calmly, leaning against the doorway, eyes gritting from tiredness but mind still alert enough to deal with the agent.

Bond must have been lying down, but he sat up smoothly, a dark silhouette in a dark room. “Q,” he said back slowly and in the same tone, like one person nodding warily to another, although most any nod would be invisible in this poor lighting.  Bond didn’t have any idea what Q was about, but seemed curious enough to hear him out.

Shifting and crossing his arms, the better to hold in his own heat as the night sank cold fangs into the air despite the stove, Q wet his lips and gathered his thoughts so that he could reply steadily and with purpose, “I’m not an agent. I’m not like you. I don’t live out of cars or spend hours cleaning guns and making bombs and just push it to the back of my mind later, like just another part of a boring routine.  I’m not weak either.  I’m coping.” Q stopped to see if 007 would argue, but the man sitting on the bed was silent.  He was dressed still in his sleeveless undershirt, showing off his physique easily beneath, although all of his athletic frame right now was still watchful like a patient piece of the night with golden hair and ice-blue eyes. Q went on, dipping his chin a little in a tiny nod of gratitude, “Right now, I want my coping to include you. Do you mind if I intrude?” He tipped his head towards the bed, trying to keep still, not to give away how nervous this plan made him. Honestly, Q had no idea why this was even a remotely sane idea, but it felt…right.  He was edgy and anxious about what tomorrow would bring, and it felt like shooting a man all over again, and he remembered 007 holding him together then.  Something in that soothing, silent show of support and comfort had been different from that glass and iron man who lied as easily as he breathed and who killed as easily with words as with guns or bare hands.  Maybe Bond was right, and there was no ‘James’ outside of ‘007,’ but there was definitely something gentle and soft to be differentiated from the claws and predatory fangs.

This seemed like the best way to bring that side to the fore, even if Q couldn’t say for certain why he wanted that. 

Bond’s head tilted, a thoughtful posture even if his face was too shadowed to read. “You trust me to be a gentleman?” he said as if that amused him, but it was a thin veneer of humor. Beneath it was curiosity.

“You and I both know that having sex is a bad idea when combat is coming,” Q replied logically, even as his stomach gave a little flip at the idea, heart speeding up until Q felt his ears heat up.  Logic aside, he was thinking about it, because Bond was addictive – even if you’d only had the barest taste of what he could do.  “So yes, I trust you to be cordial.  I don’t exactly trust you to keep your hands to yourself, but then again-” Q shrugged, continuing with dry, resigned humor.  “-You never do.”

Apparently hearing how the smaller man injected only the most superficial irritation into that sentence, Bond chuckled, a low and brief rumble of noise. 007 leaned back then, and lifted up the covers next to him.  “Fine then. Who am I to argue where the Quartermaster of MI6 sleeps?”

Q relaxed and let out a sigh he’d been holding in.  He quickly straightened again, though, to give a professional nod and a “Thank you, 007,” before striding forward.  Just standing in the hallway with the floor leaching its cold into his feet had left the smaller man feeling chilled, and he liked the idea of sharing heat even if the rest of his plan still sounded like borderline insanity. Still, he slipped into bed with only the slightest hesitation and lay down, back to 007 with a fine ream of tension all over him like a frost.

“Scared about tomorrow, Quartermaster?” Bond asked, voice idle and almost musing. It sounded lower and rougher up close, like velvet rubbed backwards – somehow still luxurious and engaging.

“Tired,” was all Q said, which was more or less the truth as he took off his glasses and deposited them on the ancient bedside table.  He’d reached a point of exhaustion where he couldn’t even tell where each and every emotion was coming from.  He was undoubtedly scared, but he was also frustrated, impatient, confused, angry, and a million other emotions all mixed together in a nasty, cold soup. If he had to sift it all apart, he’d be up all night.  “Wishing I had more self-defense training, among other things.”

007 laughed a bit again, although just briefly and quietly, and then there was the sound of blankets shifting.  It was a sound Q had been expecting, and he felt a little shiver of anticipation (what he was anticipating, he had no idea) as the mattress gave way under shifting weight. “Self defense – or any sort of defense – is my job, Q,” Bond chided, up on one elbow behind Q so that he could murmur the words near Q’s right ear.  Q shuddered and kept still, feeling a lot like a mouse in a lion’s den – only there was a good chance that the lion was benevolent, at least so long as he didn’t prod it.  True to form, the lack of response seemed to cool the agent down, and instead of infusing something hot and tempting into his voice, Bond merely pressed a kiss into Q’s hair and finished in the same idle, reproving tone, “Let me worry about it.” The agent settled down again, although he was now close at Q’s back like the metaphorical lion curling up nearby, golden and warm.  Q resisted the urge to arch into him, focusing instead on that rare, serene tone in Bond’s voice. “You’ve already shown me you can make better bombs than I can – my ego may not take another blow like that.”

The joshing made Q giggle just a little, and something about the happy noise from the smaller man had 007 shifting closer, nearer.  There was a tense moment when Q wondered just how far Bond was going to push him, but like the last time they’d shared a bed (or like any of 007’s odd, idle touches), this reached a point just straddling the line between acceptable and unprofessional and stopped there.  A heavy, muscular arm wrapped around Q’s middle, and a leg bent until it mimicked the curve of Q’s legs, a flush warmth from tailbone to ankle that made Q swallow as he closed his eyes.  Still, 007 was only mildly aroused (Q was close enough that he could vouch for that), and seemed calm and content.  He breathed in against Q’s hair and out against his neck, forcing a quiver at the sensation against his prickling skin. 

“Nothing’s going to touch you tomorrow, Q,” said Bond, as steady and forcefully certain as a summer storm cresting the horizon.  His hand on Q’s middle pressed closer and rose up, so close to sexual that it made it temporarily hard for Q to think, until Bond’s palm was pressed over the Quartermaster’s chest as if he intended to reach in and wrap his fingers around Q’s heart.  Q pulled in a breath and wriggled a little as 007’s other hand pushed its way under him, so that he could wrap a second arm around him from beneath. It took a bit of wriggling to get comfortable again, but 007 was patient.  “Nobody’s going to touch you,” he continued to murmur, mouth close and breath as warm as air over coals, “Nobody but me.”

And somehow he got Q turned over so that they were facing each other, and the Quartermaster – who was clearly more exhausted than he thought, or more relaxed about 007 than he thought – fell asleep tucked against Bond’s chest, feeling hands trace slow paths all the way up his back and back down, fingertips sometimes rising up to finger his hair and sink into it like the curious flexing of a falcon’s claws.  It should all have been rather intimidating, but at some point, the safest place in the entire world had become right here. 

Q didn’t know if he was sleeping with the spy 007, the infamous lady’s man James Bond, or just the elusive James – or if any of those temperaments existed apart from one another – but he felt at home here.

And whomever this was wrapped around him, exploring him with possessive but gentle hands, was ready to fight monsters for him tomorrow. 

 

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Q had a few mean moments with Bond here, but to be fair, it's usually 007 being the nosy/invasive one XD Hopefully everyone is contented with how the boys have worked this out for the time being!
> 
> Also, because more than a few people have been asking: I do _not_ intend for 007 to actually have any sort of multiple personality disorder. Q's perhaps a bit worried that there are multiple sides to Bond, but mostly in a sense of 'sometimes Bond has a mask on and lies like a rug' versus 'sometimes Bond is actually putting aside the lies and really is speaking his mind.' Hopefully that clears a few things up :) 
> 
> (For those of you who liked the multiple-personality theory, fear not: I usually write fairly open-ended descriptions, so you'll doubtlessly be able to interpret what you wish)


	18. That Black-Hole Pull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to prepare for the bad-guys! Chapter summary is vague because we're approaching the excitement, folks...just a bit more cuddliness before that ;3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woot! Back on the internet! Expect a lot of posting for awhile ;) I've got a test on Monday, but hopefully some free time for a few weeks after that...

Q woke to the sensation of something stroking his chin, and the subconscious knowledge that it had been doing so for some time now, warm and repetitive.  He blinked his eyes open to find silvery pre-dawn light sneaking past the heavy curtains of the room in weak slices, all of the color bled out of it. Bond shifted next to him. At some point during the night one or the other of them must have initiated a movement from their sides to their backs – one way or another, Q was now tucked against 007’s kettle-hot side with the agent’s biceps shifting every-so-slightly behind his head when Bond moved his hand to touch Q’s skin.  He had his large hand cupped around his Quartermaster’s chin very lightly, with his thumb caressing back and forth just beneath his lower lip.  “Early for you, Quartermaster,” the agent rumbled. His voice was unreadable.  A furtive glance up told Q that the agent was very much awake – even propped up against the headboard. The watery light of not-quite-morning seemed as if it didn’t quite dare touch him, so only the barest edges and angles of him were highlighted.  It was as if a seamstress had decided to pick out only minimalist lines of him in silver thread, finding a bit of cold color in his mountain-ice eyes where they were watching the window as if he could see through the curtains to the world outside. He had that restless energy again, like a cat sitting perfectly still but switching its tail back and forth. Somehow, it all matched his words, which were almost a question but not quite, as if he were barely focusing enough to make the effort.  A machine not trying to be human. 

Q settled down again. He knew, logically, that the room was chilly, but beneath the blankets and their layers of clothes (which didn’t seem to be stopping Bond’s body-heat _at all_ ), he was toasty.  Bond was more than passably comfortable as a pillow anyway, even if the Quartermaster was rather unsure about the idle stroking of his hand.  He decided to tolerate it for now, although as he spoke, it moved his mouth closer to Bond’s thumb, and when Q’s lip brushed it, something skittered down his spine like the effervescence in a swallow of champagne. “Must have gotten enough sleep in the car yesterday.”  His voice was a bit raspy and breathy, and he told himself that it was the lack of use while he slept, and not the little rush from almost touching the pad of Bond’s thumb with his mouth.  If Bond was being purposefully sexual again, he was doing a very fine job of acting nonchalant about it…

“You can go back to sleep,” Bond replied, still not making much effort at his usually suave façade, which was somehow comforting.  This side of 007 wasn’t particularly charming or friendly, but it was true, and somehow Q found that more relaxing than Bond’s kindest smiling mask.  The agent shifted, moving his body bare millimeters so that Q sank deeper against him.  Without his glasses on, Q couldn’t see much further than 007’s face clearly, but it was enough to note the sky-blue eyes that scanned the room once, then flicked down to him, before returning to the window.  “No trouble yet.  There’s probably still some lull before the storm hits.”  Finally, Bond seemed to ease a bit, as if the act of talking reminded him how to perform around another person.  He was still alert and sharp-edged, but his hand finally moved from the Quartermaster’s face, lowering to rest as if it belonged on Q’s chest.

For a second, Q’s own hand twitched, betraying a reflexive desire to join the agent’s appendage.  He noted the movement and halted it, however, aware of quite a few quirks with Bond when it came to interpersonal contact. Usually, 007 survived by being unpredictable, but one of the things about him that could be depended upon was that if someone gave him an inch, he took a mile – give him a smile, he’d take the whole heart.  Bond seemed to have a natural instinct to react hard and fast to any stimulus, and while it kept him ahead of his enemies, it also made him rather dangerous to deal with. Still…  Aware that he was already in bed with Bond, and nothing untoward had happened because of that, the Quartermaster flexed his fingers pensively before bringing up his right hand so that it rested below 007’s, his thumb just brushing the agent’s smallest, left hand finger. Blue eyes turned to him in the dimness.

“Has anyone told you that you’re a puzzle, Q?” the agent asked unexpectedly, something more like his usual tone entering his voice.  ‘Usual’ meant full of hidden meaning, but it was still light, still fairly transparent. 007 shifted again, and Q got the sense that he was redirecting his attention as well, from the impending danger to the man under the blankets with him.

Giving a small, somewhat self-effacing chuckle, Q shook his head.  “No, in the list of things I’ve been called in my life, ‘puzzle’ isn’t one of them. Considering how you seem to delight in reading me like a book, I can’t imagine why you’re calling me that either.”

“Maybe,” 007’s voice shifted tones again, sand dunes of sound beneath Q’s feet, “I’m trying to be friendly.” His hand shifted, finding Q’s so that their skin touched in more places, covering the slim lines of Q’s fingers with his scarred, callused palm.  He slipped his thumb beneath until he had the digits in his grip, turning them, testing the range of motion just enough to make the strength in his hold apparent. Q’s breath caught at the little thrill of danger that settled along his nerves like the stroke of a bow vibrating a violin string.  Q lived by his hands, and 007 could easily break them beyond repair – turning them just a little bit further, twisting a little harder.  Instead, Bond gentled his hold until he was merely resting his hand atop Q’s, making a bracelet around Q’s wrist with loose, strong fingers. His thumb stroked, much like his voice, “Maybe I’m being flattering.”

Ah, now 007 was becoming more himself, which made Q uncomfortable for a moment – because it meant he had to be more alert, too, to the predator right next to him.  After wriggling once in unease, however, the Quartermaster realized that there was hardly any point in it.  After all, hadn’t he been stuck with Bond for days now with no negative side-effects?  No one else in MI6 history could claim the same, except perhaps M, but she’d also never been coaxed into bed with the man.  Or had coaxed her own way in.  This current position was honestly no fault of 007’s, for once.  Q was by now quite aware of the ridiculousness of his own choices regarding the best of MI6’s spies, not least of which being the most intimate kiss shared between them back in MI6’s very halls, which had also been started by Q anyway.  The more he thought about it, the fewer the number of instances he could lay upon Bond’s shoulders, which was startling in its own right. 

So the smaller man pushed aside the little voice muttering warnings in the back of his head – the little voice that apparently hadn’t learned that 007 was here to protect Q, not hurt him – and said with a contemplative little hum, “You know, I do believe saying, quite clearly, that you can _ask_ for what you want. Circuitous routes like flattery are quite unnecessary.”

“Maybe I’m afraid of what I’d ask, given the opportunity.”  Bond’s voice was musing, too, but with an edge of bitter humor that was hard to interpret. Chances were high that it was a manufactured tone, but 007 truly did seem rather pensive – his touch was giving him away.  The calm grasp of his hand had slithered loose, leaving him to drum his fingertips a bit on the back of Q’s knuckles.  Then he pressed down to drag his fingers down to Q’s fingertips, curving his fingertips just enough so that the nails teased Q’s skin and made gooseflesh rise up along his arm. “Maybe I’m afraid of what you’d _give_ ,” was the thunder-low completion of Bond’s sentence, as he removed his hand entirely, resettling it back upon the bed. 

The first move in a chess game. An unreadable move on the part of Bond’s knight; Bond settling in to wait for Q’s counter. Q could all but see the game in his head, but the difference was, 007 was sitting across from him in utter silence, instead of distracting him with a barrage of words and smiles and coyly teasing hints.  Was this what Bond looked like with all of his lies stripped away?  Q wasn’t sure, but he was so curious that it hurt, and he couldn’t help but be drawn in more by this than by any bait 007 had set out previously.

“I’m fairly certain that you’ve already asked for the truth from me,” Q began to feel his way into the conversation, picking his words carefully, thoughtfully, “I’ve given it. You’ve asked for my assistance and guidance on missions, which I’ve also given, as I give it to any other agent under my purview.  You haven’t…” Now his words stuttered and failed for a moment, and Q had to sit up.  Despite what he’d said about giving Bond the truth, and what 007 had said yesterday about Q being a truthful light in a night sky full of dark lies, it was hard to speak his mind.  Peripherally aware of 007 still lounging at his back, Q sat, arms draping over his knees while he considered the slivers of light traveling across the floor. They were growing more golden as the day grew in strength.  “You haven’t outright asked for…more personal things.  Yes, you’ve hinted, and you’ve cajoled, but I don’t really know what you’re asking from one minute to the next, because it’s very hard for me to see past the training.”

There was a stretch of silence while Q worried his lip, surprised by how hard and painful that last sentence had been to get out.  It had felt like grabbing barbed wire in both hands and then trying to drag it up and out his throat. The feeling now of being exposed was acute, and he jumped when something – 007’s hand – touched him, gentle and light, low on his back.  When Q didn’t protest, 007 pressed closer until he was smoothing his palm up the Quartermaster’s spine, nightshirt being pushed up and out of the way with the movement. Q shuddered out a shivering breath past his teeth.  “Maybe I have a hard time _thinking_ past the training,” Bond countered, his tone reasonable, “Have you thought of that?”

“Endlessly,” Q retorted, a bit personally frustrated by the subject.  “All the more reason for me to want very clear requests and questions out of you.”

Bond’s hand had settled for scratching idly across Q’s back, more soothing than intimate, and Q felt the urge to arch into it.  So he did, like a cat. Whatever he had with Bond was confusing and unpredictable, but if he wanted candidness from 007, he’d be a hypocrite not to show a bit himself.  “Ask,” he said, the word quiet but forceful like iron wrapped in cashmere.

More silence.  Maybe this was why Q hadn’t just tossed hesitancy to the wind and accepted a night of mindblowing sex with the great 007 yet – Q was a man of words and numbers and logic, and he didn’t think he could ever truly be satisfied with someone who only dealt in smoke and mirrors, masks and shadows. Something like that would stifle Q and slowly kill him, even if his body was already making it quite clear that it would love every second of it.  Bond always hesitated and backed off when pressed to commit to things that included truth and trust, or before giving some of those solid, logical words a try. Even 007’s answers were like oil, glistening beautifully as light caught them, but slipping out of Q’s hands.

But this time, Bond answered, and it was in that perfectly flat voice that held nothing at all – no lies, no threats, no subterfuge.  “Survive all of this, Quartermaster, and I will.”  He sat up, and Q’s heart caught a bit as lips were pressed swiftly to the back of his neck, chaste and close-mouthed.  Bond held himself there like an oak bent against its stalwart nature, creaking under the strain but determined to hold, and whispered steady words against the back of Q’s neck, “I won’t ask anything until the job is done, when I’m sure that I’m not just a dead man making promises.”  The hand on Q’s back stroked briefly, once, down the bladed line of his scapula before politely retreating, and then 007 was pulling away again – that brief moment of sincerity had been hard for him, and like his words of yesterday, he’d used up his allotment.  Q, feeling surprisingly stunned and breathless, watched mutely as the larger man got out of bed, stepping far enough that Q couldn’t view him clearly without glasses.  All he had was an impression of broad shoulders, smooth steps, and clear strength, turned away so that the growing slices of light through the window gave him the very faintest of auras. 

“Thank you, James,” seemed the most appropriate thing to say, as Q leaned over to find his glasses. The day had to start, after all, and death was indeed closing in on them – hopefully, when its jaws closed, it wouldn’t be on them, though.

He heard the other man snort, and pulled his glasses on in time to see that 007 was turned to him, one side of his mouth harboring a crooked smile while his head tilted. “I thought you had a problem with using my first name, Quartermaster?”

“I had a problem with being in bed with you, too,” Q pointed out, quite sensibly, while indicating the rumpled bed. He managed to add quite lightly, “Apparently it’s a learning process.” 

Another chuff of jaded humor met that remark, but unexpectedly, there was no argument.  “Change out of your nightclothes, Q.  If we’re both up, we may as well get ready for the day,” Bond’s tone grew businesslike as if he’d just pulled on a suit of armor, even as he physically began stripping out of the clothes he’d slept in. In the hopes of perhaps maintaining a professional mindset, Q planned to look away, but he was too slow and his eyes got caught on the play of muscles and bare skin instead. Bond was always perfectly balanced, perfectly aware of every movement he made, and it showed in a sort of rough elegance as he stripped and then walked unconcernedly to find new clothes.

“Are you being deliberately distracting?” Q had to ask.

“No.”

“Hmm.”  Oddly enough, the answer sounded sincere. That was a novelty. “You’re rather good at it, regardless.”

Bond cast half a smile and one blue-eyed glance over his shoulder, as playful as fire licking up a piece of tinder. “Now who’s flattering the other?”

“Touché.”  Q belatedly got himself together and slid off the bed, hissing at the coldness of the floor and immediately missing the bed…and, probably, since this was a morning for being truthful, 007’s body-heat. “I’ll go try and find clothing that I won’t bloody freeze in, and then I have something I want to do outside. Are you cooking breakfast?”

“Seeing as you have yet to show even the remotest cooking skill, probably,” the agent teased smoothly. The alertness of his eyes as he pulled on pants and trousers showed that he was deeply curious about just what the Quartermaster had planned that would lure him outside despite the early chill. “Do you plan on wandering far?” was the closest he came, however, to asking what Q was thinking.

Almost at the door but pausing both to answer the question and to watch 007’s torso flex as he drew on a form-fitting grey T-shirt followed by a black jumper, the dark-haired man answered, “Of course not.  This is your show, Bond, and the last thing I have an interest in doing is gallivanting into the arms of trouble.  I’m just going to tweak a few things on the Aston Martin.”

“Ohh, now you have me interested,” Bond rumbled, catching a heavy dark jacket but only slinging it over one arm for the moment.  “Anything you need my help on?”

“I’ll let you know,” Q said instead of replying with his usual, knee-jerk reaction, which was to keep 007 and his destructive tendencies as far away from mechanical projects as possible. Before he could stall any longer (or notice the way that Bond was casting proprietary glances at Q’s pajama-clad self, as if he hadn’t had the Quartermaster docile and in bed with him the whole night before), Q turned and slipped out of the room and back to his own, digging out clothes that would hopefully keep him comfortable and warm for the day.

As he pulled on a jumper of his own, noting that most of his warmer clothes were patterned while this one was a rather nice dull tan, Q wondered soberly whether any of this would have bloodstains on it before the day was out.

~^~

An hour later and Q was under the hood of the Aston Martin, chewing over some things that 007 had said and shown him – namely, an honest-to-god secret tunnel leading from the house to out under the moors.  Q had been sure that things like that only occurred in mystery and suspense novels, but Bond had shown him the inconspicuous little entrance and the switch that would turn on what sparse lighting the tunnel had been rigged with.  The Quartermaster in Q had immediately been thinking about how it could be improved, but the more human part of him was focused on the serious tone of Bond’s voice, and the way his expression had grown closed off and hard. “When I tell you to, you will go here and follow the tunnel to the end,” he’d said in a voice that denied argument. ‘ _When_ ,’ he’d said – not ‘if.’  And he’d said ‘you will’ to make it clear that this was already decided, and Q had chosen not to press.  Already he was growing nervous, so verbally grappling with the 00-agent didn’t appeal to him. Besides, if Q decided not to follow that order, there was no point in telling Bond that until the moment it happened, was there?

Bond had eaten quickly and had then picked up a rifle and gone for some quick reconnaissance – not far, he’d promised, so a loud shout would suffice even if the two of them didn’t both have mobiles. The service here was, unsurprisingly, all but nonexistent, but Q wasn’t the youngest Quartermaster in MI6 history for nothing – he and Bond had internet and phone service here, but woe-betide anyone else who wanted to use tech in the area.  Q had made a little oasis in the desert here, but he wasn’t sharing. Q had also taken advantage of 007’s itch to move by passing him some small motion sensors that he’d developed himself back in Q-branch – they were prototypes inspired by an older, less dependable model, and would hopefully give them some forewarning of approaching vehicles without being so sensitive as to go off for rabbits and foxes. “Set up a perimeter with these – I trust that you’ll know the best locations.  Since you’ve used and broken at least twenty similar devices in the past, I assume you know how they work?”

Of course, 007 had joked that maybe the reason they broke was because he _didn’t_ know how to work them, but he’d stuffed them into his coat-pocket and loped off before Q could teach him.  The Quartermaster didn’t doubt that Bond was perfectly familiar with the sensors’ systems, and spared a moment to realize how nice it was to deal with smart people.  Even destructive ones.

Q finished up what he was doing under the hood and slipped underneath the car, dragging his tool-pouch near him as the dry grass crackled under him.  He was tightening things off with a wrench when the barest crackle of snapping stems alerted him to something near him – a nudge of a boot against his ankle told him that it was Bond.  “Called M. She’s indirectly tracking our progress by the rises in criminal activity – she said it was like one of those science shows, where astronomers track black holes by monitoring the stars and planets they pull off-course.  Apparently we have the gravitational pull of a very big black hole, at least to ambitious villains.”

Still working, Q couldn’t help but smirk. “I’m not sure if I’m more impressed by the metaphor or by my own popularity,” he admitted.

“Just wait, it gets better,” 007 deadpanned, “Apparently, you’re such a big prize that it’s flushing all sorts of shady folks out of the woodwork.  MI6 has caught no fewer than a dozen people trying to attack your flat alone.”

Startled, Q finally finished up and wriggled out from under the car with a bit of effort, eventually sitting with his back to the fender.  “But I haven’t even been at my flat in ages,” he protested, barely seeing the logic of this.

The agent’s mouth twisted in the cold ghost of a grin.  “Like I said, you’re quite a catch.  Those smart enough to track you to my flat have also been caught.  MI5 is even helping out, to make up for leaking the information in the first place.  Of course, M is using our absence as an opportunity to do some head-hunting.”

“A mole in the department-” Either MI5 or MI6. “-Would explain a lot.” Sagging and letting his head thump back against the smooth metal of the Aston Martin behind him, Q closed his eyes, for a moment overwhelmed.  “God, this is all unreal.”

“Get used to it, Q. Your job description includes technical support to international spies and assassins.”

“Yes, but at least that was _in_ the job description!” protested Q, throwing up his arms, only then noticing how messy his hands and forearms were, and his sleeves, despite his effort to roll up his sleeves.  He glared as if personally offended by this.  “If I’d know that I’d become like chum in the water to a bunch of overzealous sharks, perhaps I would have reconsidered taking the job offer.”

“Stop whining, Q.” Bond stepped forward playfully and ruffled Q’s hair, totally ignoring the reflexive glare he got in return. In contrast to this morning’s distance and tenseness, 007 was downright relaxed now, every athletic line of him at ease and idle as if the encroaching danger was like a drug to him. Perhaps his next too-calm words explained his disposition a bit: “Just remember: one of the biggest sharks is standing here right now thinking you look adorable with oil and dirt smeared on your face.”

Unsure whether to be flattered, offended, or a little bit intimidated, Q’s expression went through a few derivations before finally settling on rolling his eyes with a resigned huff. “I dearly hope we both survive this so that I can lecture you about your flippancy,” he threatened.

Bond’s grin flashed wider, his glacial eyes somehow looking extra bright under the perpetually overcast sky – as if the sapphire blueness hidden beyond needed another outlet, and the only option was the analytical gaze of an emotionally-challenged spy. “You love it – admit it, Q,” he grinned without moving his gaze from Q’s face.

“Ask me that again after we no longer have the metaphorical sword of Damocles hanging over us-” Q started to toss back when his phone beeped.  He immediately pulled it out and unlocked the screen, quick eyes taking in what had caused the noise while his mouth drew itself into a thin, pursed line. He felt all of the anxiety that he’d been pushing aside with work, snark, and banter come back like ice reaching shuddering claws up through his insides; it felt as though his lungs were creaking with the cold of it, the insides of his ribcage lined with painful frost. “Sensor five just picked something up. That means there’s a vehicle heading our way,” he said with all lightness gone from his voice.

Q didn’t realize that he’d just been sitting there staring at his phone, frozen, until Bond broke him from his inactivity by reaching down to grab his upper arm.  With a powerful hand wrapped just beneath the curve of Q’s shoulder, 007 drew him up.  “Time for me to do a bit of hunting then,” he said, the little upward curve of his mouth totally faked and more chillingly cold than the sensation clotted in Q’s gut. “Go back to the house. Check your pistol and be sure you have extra ammunition handy, and a second weapon, if there are any you trust yourself with in particular.  I’ll keep my phone on me – send me any other updates as soon as you get them. I might not answer, but I’ll get them.”

“So you’re going off on your own then?” Q asked as he was propelled towards the house with a little shove, glancing back disapprovingly, “One against the however many unknown threats that have just arrived?”

“Nothing quite so heroic,” Bond assured him, for once acting sensibly as he checked his own weapon with a few efficient movements, “I just want to get a better look at what we’ve got coming our way, and there’s just enough fog left in the direction of that sensor that I think I can do some spying without getting noticed.  If I kill anyone now, it will be from a safe distance, don’t worry, Quartermaster.”

“That plan sounds remarkably wise.”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” Bond flashed him a frowning look.

“Bond,” Q sighed at him, but dredged up a little smile to soften the bite of his joke, “you once took on a tank by yourself.  Granted, you still won, but I still don’t know how you did that.  I’d much rather have you where I can offer support in any way I can, because that’s what I’m trained for.”

“And I’m trained in outmaneuvering my opponents in any way possible – preferably without dying.  Trust me, Q.”  That last sentence was dangerous when coming out of 007’s mouth: he knew perfectly well that when he asked that, it was like asking someone to put a gun in his hand and get on their knees.  For a second, however, the lethal focus of his eyes flickered, and something more fragile broke through the cracks.  His next words were softer and imploring, “I’ll come back to you.  You’ve got me by your side until the danger is past.”

Q believed him.  “Come back soon, 007.  I’ll look forward to whatever information you can gather,” he said with forced formalness that felt painful on his tongue. 

~^~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, so we've got Bond being odd, Bond being cuddly, Bond being...pretty much everything. And we've got Q being truthful and dealing with it all rather well. 
> 
> *rubs hands together gleefully* Now it's time to add some mayhem! Get ready for some violence! We're approaching the end of this fic, and I never like to go out quietly...


	19. Give Me That Gunmetal Grin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The villains have arrived, and Bond is more than ready to give them the kind of greeting they deserve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drumroll please! At long last, for those of you who have requested it: Bond's POV. It was challenging to switch up the writing, to describe a man who has largely been an enigma up until now (to me nearly as much as you), but hopefully you enjoy the effect ;) 
> 
> As always, a bajillion thanks to my beta, who not only catches all of my silly grammar errors, but leaves me the most hilarious comments, so I can't help but want to write more...

A wrought-iron cold. It sank in like teeth even though it wasn’t entirely real.  The chill was mostly internalized, a sort of demi-sense that came from the death Bond carried in his hands, edgy and familiar.  It curled amidst the ghoul’s-breath fog that held sway over the moors. He moved soundlessly, the same mist that was enclosing his vision also muffling every step he took – a double-edged sword.  Most of life, Bond had found, was double-edged.  The trick was to either avoid the cutting edge, or _become_ it.

It had been awhile since Bond had moved through mist thick enough to actually cloak him – awhile meaning two missions ago, Q in his ear, a gun-runner rabbiting ahead of him, and a conquest forgotten in the house behind him.  With an analytical mind that cut down the facts to slivers in his head, Bond listened, hearing each shift in the quiet.  Even complete silence wasn’t bereft of knowledge, because even a non-answer was an answer. 

Q’s past silences filled up Bond’s head like fractals and smoke.  He found himself pausing and cocking his head, parsing apart the puzzles only to find more hidden beneath – like mathematical impossibilities. Like Q. 

Shaking the thoughts off with a roll of his shoulders (although he felt like he could never shake Q off these days), Bond started moving forward again.  His attention was constantly spread out like the threads of a spider’s web, vibrating with alertness as he naturally took in data from all his senses, from everything around him.  All of that culminated in a perfect freezing of his step and tensing of his muscles when the barest, faintest sound reached him.  Voices, he recognized, and felt something cold and lethal spread a smile across his face.  Mist rolling off his shoulders like hands that couldn’t catch him, 007 changed directions, circling as gently as a shark around the first droplet of blood.

“Damn this fog.  I can barely see the hand in front of my face.”

“Do you think it will burn off as the day wears on?”

“I think I don’t want to wait for the goddamned weather to improve to get my payday.  Get back in the car.  We’ll keep moving.”

Still out in that same damned fog, 007’s smile remained fixed in place, a gunmetal grin.  He listened as people moved, car-doors were slammed, and an engine growled louder.  One vehicle then; four suspects.  Four kills. Bond was almost insulted by the small turnout, and barely waited for the vehicle to start grinding into motion before racing forward like a cat going from prowling to chasing. Fearless, he came close enough that the shape of the car – just barely picking up speed itself – loomed out of the mist, ice-blue eyes picking out its hulking shape. 

Two bullets took out two tires. Then 007 was fading back into the curling, off-white arms of the fog. 

“What kind of idiot drives a flashy black car to a shootout anyway?” he muttered to himself as he ignored the startled yells and shouts behind him.  A few bullets chased after the agent, but they were nothing but gnats – noisy gnats, but nowhere near dangerous.  Bond kept low and in motion, some part of his mind realizing that he was playing, but not caring.  Energy crackled through his frame, as alive as a second lethal skin. 

‘ _Will this be the time you die, James_?’ the question sprang up in his head, cut-glass sharp and bright as a burnt-out sun.

Like it always did.

Somehow, the voice never sounded like a threat so much as it sounded like a _challenge_.

The car wouldn’t get far, not with the unevenness of the path (the track could hardly be called a road in its condition) and with their car now lopsided.  The truly wicked side of 007 hoped they were stupid enough to try and change the tire, just so he could pick them off like some sort of monster – stealing one more person every time the others turned around. Let it never be said that 00-agents never had any fun in their lives. 

Q would probably frown at him and give him a lecture on excessive violence.  That thought sprung unbidden into Bond’s head, a ringing chime from a belled cat.  His own mouth turning down and a breath pluming from his nostrils, 007 centered himself, recalling with effort that _normal_ people didn’t hunt other humans.  Bond had always been a tsunami: a thing made of force and dispassionate destruction. Somehow, having the Quartermaster around him was gentling the waves; Bond felt it like a warm, slow hand that stroked down his spine.  People had tried to dismantle Bond before, but that wasn’t what Q was doing.  Vesper had done that, and 007 had built himself back up again, sharper and more dangerous than before, but right now, it felt as if he were sewing his soul back together with Q at its center.

A second rumble distracted Bond from his rare musings, focusing his mind again like a laser-sight coming into focus. He’d been behind the first vehicle, deciding whether to put those criminals out of their misery or just gather information like he’d promised his Quartermaster, but now a noise buffeted the mists behind _him_.  The cloying veils of grey-white had hidden the sound from him, but now the chuckling growl of a second car reached the agent’s ears. His brows lowered and his expression became carved out of hard, unforgiving stone.  Muscles tightened.  Weight shifted.  The gun bled more of its wrought-iron cold into his experienced hands. 

His phone vibrated – no doubt Q telling him that more of the motion sensors had been triggered.  007 considered the pros and cons of checking, and ultimately decided that he didn’t have the time.  Bond was standing right between two threats, and while it was like death in a bottle, it felt like he was a puzzle piece coming home.  This was one of 007’s failings – one of the strangling chains that he revered and would never try to break – and one day his love of chaos would kill him.

‘ _Will this be the time you die, James_?’

Fog like damp mouths on his skin. Grass crackling like little perishing cries as it was crushed beneath oncoming car-tires, the sound reaching his ears like a warning.  Bond’s phone vibrated again a second before he saw the slowly oncoming hood of a car, and the car’s passengers saw him.  007 was already dodging aside as a bullet split the air. 

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?” someone from the forward car screamed. They’d stopped and gotten out of the car again, but would be diving in back now, driven by bullets.

“The bastard you called about, shooting out your tires – we saw him!” a returning shout came from the second car’s window, and if Bond weren’t all frozen inside, he would have been furious at himself. One car with four people was hardly a threat worth the time of the MI6 Quartermaster, but two cars with double the danger sounded far more plausible.  They were clearly communicating via walkie talkies, because their coverage had to be nonexistent as hell thanks to Q’s work. 

It was chaos now, but this was still the storm’s edge that 007 lived on.  He almost smirked again as the two halves of the criminal group tried to decide whether or not it was worth it to shoot towards their own comrades, with Bond and the heavy fog still between them.  Bond, of course, took the opportunity to shoot out the front two tires on the second car, depending entirely on his memory of where the second car sat in the fog.  It must have rolled forward a bit, because one bullet pinged off metal – the other was rewarded by the pop-and-hiss of a tire breathing its last.  The ghost of a grin stretched further across 007’s rugged face, but before he could grow more proud of his work or plan more mayhem, a bullet creased his shoulder.  Fire lit him up, tendrils of heat radiating in all directions, but it never occurred to Bond to cry out.  His breath just caught as his lungs and heart tried to adjust to the influx of massive pain – then he was in control again.  Slightly angry, slightly miffed that he’d been caught by what had to be a lucky shot, but in control.  He shifted his gun to the other hand and adjusted his focus to shooting left-handed for a bit. Cobra-cold, he circled away, distractedly hoping that the villains would make his job easier by shooting a few of their own. 

It crossed his mind – briefly – to just return to Q now.  He’d discovered two vehicles and about eight people in them, adequately armed. He’d even disabled those vehicles and probably rattled their occupants, because one of the few things that Bond was better at than killing was scaring.  A fearful enemy was an enemy he could manipulate.  Bond slew people with their own mistakes.

He liked to think that it wasn’t a mistake on his part that took the decision to return to Q out of his hands.

Bond got a heartbeat of warning before the sound of running footsteps broke through the graveyard-deep silence of the fog, almost startling him.  By then, though, it was already too late.  Bond could see a man racing towards him – unlike the stark black of the front car, this man was dressed for the atmosphere, in shades of grey that made him hard to see, letting the fog cloak him.  The same fog that had hidden 007 up until now.  There wasn’t even time to aim.  Reflexes like a cat, Bond still barely managed to twist and brace himself, sending a bullet that tore his opponent’s sleeve.  He would have fired again – and fired _better_ – except his opponent had a gun, too, and 007 had to focus on keeping himself bullet-hole-free himself.  Then it was all muscle-on-muscle as the two of them collided.

The most likely thing to kill an agent was a mistake – the _second_ most likely was wasting time thinking about it.  Part of the reason that Bond had such a reputation for being unrepentant and never thinking about his mistakes was because he never did. 007 reacted with a hard twist of his spine and a snarl of rough effort up his throat, moving even as he realized that this was going to get bad.  Muscles playing beneath his skin while sturdy bone shouldered the force, 007 managed to roll just a little with the fall, making the strategic decision to drop his gun to free up both hands.  His opponent seemed honestly shocked by how quickly Bond had made that decision, and was therefore unprepared when he had two brutal hands on his throat. Bond was still on the bottom, impact hammering his shoulders and spine, but focus was a honed knife in his soul.  Even before he could breath again, he was squeezing, eyes a frosted blue. 

Dew-dropped metal, dark and hungry. A gun-muzzle wanting to make Bond’s acquaintance.  He almost laughed. Guns were not made for close-quarter fights – their power came with their range.  As the attacker tried to bring his weapon around for a head-shot, 007 braced his feet on the ground and rolled them, taking them to one side so that wrist and gun were trapped under 007’s considerable weight. Bond never even had to loosen his choke-hold.  His opponent choked and whined.  The free hand that came up clawed at 007’s face, and he snarled at the old trick, beat back the normal reflex to let go and pull away.  Instead he jerked them further, jarring the other man with the force of impact as 007 reversed their positions entirely.  The stranger’s back now hit the brittle, dead grass and cold earth. The hand trying to take 007’s eye out went away, as he’d expected. 

The gun-hand came back into play.

Bond ignored it totally. He was busy.  He was shifting weight, shifting grip, making sure that his tendons and nerves were all responding again after his abrupt crash into the ground bare seconds ago.  Choking was too slow, and the third thing that killed agents was a lack of speed. Or hesitation. Bond had sliced those things out of his soul so long ago that the impulse to slow down or second-guess his actions barely surfaced.  On some level, he noticed the gun being stubbornly lifted to aim towards the bulk of his torso.

Bond snapped the neck of the man under him before the trigger could be pulled. 

By now, the struggle had drawn attention, and one dead still left seven alive.  Bond cursed on his exhale even as he rolled off the new corpse and felt a bullet whistle by from behind him.  His right shoulder screamed a protest before he brutally shoved the agony down, feeling satisfaction instead as he came up in a crouch right next to his Walther. It fit snugly in his hands, barely cooled from losing his body-heat.  Little warning bells dampened the flush of his success, however, because he knew with grim certainty that people were all around him now.

A noose closing around his neck.

Out of nowhere, as some thoughts had a habit of doing, a bit of an old poem came to him: ‘ _Trust the fangs of the mother wolf, and the claws of the lead-ripped bear_.’ Robert Service. Bond occasionally did idle things like read, no matter what his peers and superiors might think. The rest of the poem he could recall if he felt like it, but right now that one line felt fitting.

Feeling blood seeping out of his shoulder and staining his shoulder sticky and hot, Bond shifted his mask into a winter-wolf’s smile and prepared to let his bullet-shaped lead claws do the talking. He called out in a voice that perfectly expressed both boredom and ego-shredding disdain, “Hurry it up, ladies, I haven’t got all day.” 

~^~

 _Vasatre_ , Q had named the little thumb drive that had started all of this. ‘To lay waste.’ That was exactly what Bond did, as seven killers closed in on him, the meanest of what the underworld had to offer.

Bond smiled bloodlessly, as kind as kindling beneath a fire’s heat.  He still had his gun on him, but was wreaking just as much havoc with the knife he’d drawn out of his boot, a matte-black and wicked thing.  Shooting one-handed impaired his aim fractionally, but even like that, 007 was the best, and eerily good at what he did – which was outmaneuver, outgun, and ultimately out _live_.   So far, in the space of two minutes, two more men were dead, and the odds were starting to look delightfully even.

Perhaps seeing the same, the other men backed off, hesitating to shoot both because they’d hit their own men if they missed the 00-agent and because Bond had his own weapon up and trained on a brown-haired fellow with muddy dark eyes and a broad jaw. Bond’s smile was for him, as polite and charming as a butcher’s to a new slab of meet, and probably equally unsettling. 

“I take it you’re the Quartermaster’s bodyguard then?” the fellow – whom Bond was willing to bet was the leader of these men, by the way he moved, the way he talked, and the way others deferred to him. Things like that were easy to pick out, and Bond idly calculated the chances of him killing this man without being shortly thereafter killed himself.  “You know, I was expecting more.”

“Oddly enough, so was I,” 007 replied. He felt the words fall like sharp frozen things off his tongue – frostbite with a thin veneer of friendliness. That was a description that fit 007’s personality in general.  Only Q seemed to have somehow warmed up a patch for himself somewhere deeper. “Gregory Soring, may I presume?”

At the look of surprise on Soring’s blunt features, Bond nearly depressed the trigger, instincts shrieking. He settled the impulse, however, logic riding in to show the continued bad odds – no, better to wait, and see if they improved.  As of now, he lost nothing by waiting, and Bond was as patient as a glacier.  “You’re quick.  Too bad we’re not on the same side.”

“Indeed,” Bond played his part, agreeing with a bare little nod, “Any chance that you’ll agree to go away regardless? I’d so hate to _slaughter_ the rest of your men like _dogs_.”

It was a note to the courage of Soring’s men that they didn’t flinch, although their grips on their weapons tightened and their weights shifted almost in concert.  They had to see that they had the upper hand, but the way Bond was talking – with blatant ruthlessness and no hesitation, the kind of easy callousness that came from a man who’d stared down death so many times that he and it were old friends – made them think twice.

Soring chuckled.  His own gun was lowered in deference to the one Bond had pointed at his face, but he seemed otherwise at ease.  “You’re awfully mouthy for a man who’s outnumbered. Are you _really_ the only defense that the boffin saw fit to bring?” he asked, incredulous.

“That should tell you something,” Bond replied, like a man coaxing a particularly slow child to come to their own conclusion, “Either there are dozens of other men hiding and waiting for you to get within range, or I’m a helluva lot more dangerous than you think.”

“I hardly think the latter.”

“Your loss,” Bond shrugged. The banter was easy. It eased the cold and death-loving thing inside of him.  “By all means, test that theory,” he added with a subtle shift of his hand on his gun, which caused everyone around him to react in kind, like a bunch of puppets on a string. 007’s mouth twitched upwards on one side. 

“You know, I think I might,” Soring agreed, and without any warning, let the command drop, “Shoot him.”

~^~

There was stillness, and the fog moved like a vast, malnourished wraith, lapping up the blood that was spilled all over underfoot.  It parted only around two people, who were pushing back the damp, thick air with panted breaths.

Hair spiky with sweat and a new cut over his cheekbone, 007 knelt on Soring’s chest, his senses alert, counting…yes, all dead around him.  No more gunshots. No more sounds of pain. No more sounds of _life_.  Satisfaction was cold comfort in his chest, and 007’s frozen blue eyes didn’t show any reaction to the outright terror on Soring’s face as his head was tipped back by a gore-stained knife-blade.  It curved like a black-iron fang and was already parting skin. 

“No- _Wait_ , don’t-  I can-!” Soring fell into the last resort of begging, most other options destroyed because 007 had broken something in at least one of his arms and possibly the other as well. Then Soring saw something in 007’s face that made him stop, supplications dying out to be replaced by cornered, frustrated rage instead.  “What kind of a monster _are_ you?!” he spat with a feline’s rage.  He just barely managed to get one arm working enough to suddenly pull a small knife out of his own sleeve, lashing wildly upwards. 

Bond allowed the knife to glance off his ribs, a tactical maneuver, because that was all the time he needed to drive his own blade home and sunder Soring’s throat almost all the way back to his vertebrae.  As Soring’s arm almost instantly shuddered and went limp, 007’s coat took the worst of the damage, and the Kevlar beneath deflected the rest.  Soring’s men had been wearing bullet-proof vests, too, but 007 had long since learned to work around that.  Still, Bond sported a host of other injuries from taking on so many men at once.  He barely blinked as arterial spray painted his face in a vicious war-mask, and only hesitated to stand because he’d taken a bullet to the leg that made him think of Q, and come as close as he ever got to regret as he remembered shooting him. Standing now, looking dispassionately down at Soring’s corpse and failing to find any feeling towards it – either good or bad – 007 catalogued his injuries while simultaneously locking away each individual pain. 

He swayed.  Caught himself.  Just barely steadied.  He’d ridden the adrenalin to its apogee, and he regretted the necessity of falling back down.

There was barely a whistle and a distant crack to warn him, and then his skull exploded with pain, a white-hot crackle that took out all of his senses like a down power-line. Hard ground.  Cold fog.  The mist was thinning, but that didn’t explain the accuracy of the long-ranged shot.

Heat-seeking technology did, though.

007 shuddered against the unsteady ground and bared his teeth in a bloodied snarl as he realized that this wasn’t over yet.  He heard a mist-muffled chuckle carried to him over the distance, while his vision tried to clot over with red and black and a deep, sucking darkness that had no color…

‘ _Will this be the time you die, James_?’

~^~

Honestly, Q should have been used to it. After all, wasn’t this what he always did – waited on the sidelines while 00-agents ran blithely off into the jaws of trouble?  Somehow, it was far more difficult to deal with when he was physically on-site, and could hear bullets in real-time instead of through a comm-system.  He swore at himself for not taking the time to fetch an earpiece and make Bond wear it.  Loads of people said that you couldn’t make 007 do anything if he didn’t want to, but Q bloody could, and now he wished he had.  He paced inside the house, illogically hating that they’d boarded the windows over, because it meant he couldn’t look out them every two seconds to see what was going on.  The layers of glass and wood didn’t do much to deafen him to the weapon’s fire outside, however, and the Quartermaster frequently touched the .38 Special at his hip. The thought of using it made his breath shake, but he was more determined than before, and the anxiety always faded. 

“What the _bloody_ hell is going on out there?” he asked himself in an angry, hissing mutter.

It was then that Q’s phone vibrated, making him jump nearly a foot in the air.  After that, he scrambled for it almost wildly, pulling it out of his pocket and swiping it open.  “Bond-!” he got ready to lecture the man on not responding (although with that much gun-play going on, the sensible part of Q knew he shouldn’t be so angry).

A voice that was decidedly not James Bond answered, “I’m afraid he can’t answer.  May I assume that I’m talking to the boffin he’s been guarding with such irritating tenacity?”

Q felt his blood run cold, and for a second, his brain became white-space – empty of everything.  _All_ of him felt empty. “Yes,” he heard himself answering as if from a distance.  God, his voice sounded so level and calm…like a mountain sitting judgment on the world. “To whom am I speaking?”

There was a surprised chuckle. Then laughter. It cut off with an amused apology, “Forgive me…I’m just surprised.  I expected more reaction from telling you that I had incapacitated your bodyguard. He’s an agent, correct?”

‘ _He’s a lot of things_.’  “I’m sorry in return that my lack of response isn’t to your liking,” the detached part of Q continued talking, dry and level, while the rest of him sat amidst the rubble in his mind.  “You were expecting more outrage, no doubt?”

“Damn, you are a chill one. I thought your man was a coldhearted bastard, but we’ll see if I can’t warm him up a bit – just enough to see you.” Those words were what shattered the dignity Q had collected, hope spearing right through everything and shocking him to full awareness again.  He stuttered on a thankfully inaudible little gasp of desperation, the words, ‘ _He’s alive he’s alive he’s alive’_ echoing and repeating through his head.  The man on the other end of the line was still talking, as patronizing as before, “I suggest you don’t shoot the next people you see walking out of the fog.  It would be a pity if you killed your own agent – or if you forced us to finish him off.”

With emotions now trying to crowd out his calmness, it took effort to drag in a deep, steadying breath. Still, the Quartermaster managed, and his voice was almost as steady as before – but maybe a little bit harder, with a biting sort of edge.  “Fine.” He moved to the window, peering out very carefully through the cracks, although he trusted that – unlike Bond – everyone wanted him _alive_. “What do you want?”

The answer was as obvious as Q had been expecting.  “Why, you, darling. This whole party is for you.”

“I suppose I should be flattered.”

“Be whatever you want,” the voice continued with oiled and vicious pleasantry, right as Q gasped involuntarily – loudly this time – seeing the mists peel back around darker shapes. He would have considered shooting one of the flanking men, just to be defiant like 007 would no doubt have liked, but his eyes were glued to the view at the middle of the formation.

007, arms apparently bound, was being walked very grudgingly forward by a man with a jagged blade laid across the agent’s neck.

~^~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, would you look at that, a cliffhanger...
> 
> Many thanks to MinMu, who helped me over the writer's block keeping me from writing this chapter! She is to blame (or to be thank, profusely and unendingly, if you're me) for coming up with the idea of, "Oh, maybe we can end up with a blue-eyed hostage!" 
> 
> I've got a crazy week coming up, and two other stories on the go, but I hope to get up another chapter before anyone goes too insane!


	20. The Reckoning Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q's cornered and the bad-guys have Bond. What will happen next?!
> 
> Chaos, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An early chapter as a gift for all of the wonderful commenting!! \\(^u^)/ And as a pre-emptive apology, because I have Final Exams week after next, and the week after that...I'm leaving the country as part of a foreign exchange program!
> 
> So, fair warning: I might be on haitus until the middle of June :C I will try to post while I'm away!

How?  _How_ had this happened? That single question tore like a mass of razor-wire through Q’s consciousness, wiping out everything else for a second in white-hot despair and pain.  Then he pushed it all down, desperately seeking out that space of cold detachedness in his soul.  He’d fallen into that place quite accidentally just seconds ago, but now it was harder, as he stared at Bond, stumbling and bloodied. 

Bond had always seemed unbreakable – unstoppable.  He was less an agent and more a force of nature, as imperturbable as a blood-red dawn. The fact remained, though, that mankind was fallible, and Q felt something turn sickeningly inside of him as he was forced to admit that 007 had, apparently, slipped up.  Slipped up enough that he now had a knife under his chin and blood already smeared all over him.  Q was optimistic that much of that blood didn’t belong to his agent, but the red curtain coming down from Bond’s hairline over the left side of his face definitely belonged to the blue-eyed man in question.

Then Q realized something, and his eyes darted to the sight even as his heart made a leap for the hope flashing past: Bond _wasn’t_ actually stumbling. He gave the appearance of being ungainly because his hands were restrained tightly behind his back, and he was being walked forward with his head tilted back by the threat of exsanguination, but his footsteps were preternaturally controlled and steady. No one else would notice, but the Quartermaster had been getting used to those footsteps for weeks now, growing accustomed to the utter, intimidating control that 007 had over his every muscle and sinew.  It was entirely possible that Bond was unaware that he forever walked like a big cat, transplanted into society but in no way tame. 

Bond was feigning helplessness just enough to keep his throat from being cut, but he was in no way done.

“So, as you can see, we have the upper-” the smooth, smug voice continued.

“I’m coming out.  I want to talk face-to-face,” Q cut him off brutally, his voice totally controlled again and a plan already coming together furiously in his head. Quick eyes glancing between the boards over the windows again, the Quartermaster noted that the man on the phone was not the same man holding 007.  A smart move on their foe’s part – splitting ones attention between a phone-call and a 00-agent, no matter how restrained and incapacitated that agent, was foolish.  Apparently the man on the other end of the line knew that.  Q couldn’t see him. 

He had to lure him out, like the head of a snake out of a hole.  Q sincerely doubted his ability to behead that snake, but he had to try.

Canceling the phone call with a few forceful taps of his fingertips but keeping the mobile in hand, Q made himself walk towards the door before his common-sense could catch up to him. It was time to do something reckless and foolish. 

He held back a hysterical bubble of laughter as he realized that he was going to act exactly like Bond. Funny how he could lecture the man on missions about being rash, and here he was, preparing to do the same thing himself.  If the men outside didn’t kill them both, Q was going to get an earful of this later from Bond, no doubt.

Heart in his throat and sweating hard beneath his clothing, the Quartermaster pushed the door open and stepped boldly into the open.  007 didn’t move in any way that would be noticeable to his captors, but Q flinched at the feel of his glacial blue eyes from here.  ‘ _I wouldn’t be doing this if you hadn’t gotten yourself bloody captured, you arse_ ,’ he wanted to yell in frustration, but instead the bespectacled young man straightened his spine and strutted out with all the aplomb that he showed when walking into Q-branch. He was the Quartermaster, not a mouse cornered in its hole. 

Still only a few meters away from the safety of the house, Q stopped, hands folded behind his back as if this were merely an unpleasant talk.  “To whom do I have the pleasure of addressing myself?” he raised his voice and called, biting the inside of his cheek when his voice wavered slightly at the end. He refused to let it do so again. “You’ve got my agent. Therefore you’ve gained the honor of my attention.”

“My, we’re quite full of ourselves, aren’t we?” a voice from the mists called out, invisible but somewhere behind and to Bond’s right.  Q’s head whipped that way despite himself.  “The honor of your attention…  Well, I suppose I’ll take what I can get.”

“If you’ve hurt my agent-” Q started, bristling but also stalling.

The response was louder and more brutal, cutting the Quartermaster off and also putting an end to the teasing, bantering tone.  There was a thunderclap of threat instead, “ _Clearly_ I’ve already hurt your agent!  I nearly cracked his skull with a bullet, and if he’s not hemorrhaging internally as we speak, then he’s only upright because my man is keeping him that way. If you don’t roll over and bark when I say speak, _Quartermaster_ , your agent is going to die-”

“Stop it!  I get your point.”  Q was rattled.  He had to raise his voice to be heard, to make the litany of merciless words stop, and his tone sounded more brittle than stern.  Feeling as though vices were tightening around his throat, and lungs, and heart simultaneously, it was all Q could do to maintain his composure. He felt his hard-won calm fracturing as his head filled with visions painted by his foe’s words. As much as he didn’t mean to, the Quartermaster’s eyes moved to Bond – checking on him, trying to confirm his condition, to prove those descriptions to be lies – but that only showed him that 007 was out of commission, bloody and beaten. ‘ _James, did you really get_ shot _in the_ head?!’ Q hollered internally, helpless to ask. 

What saved Q’s trembling from becoming full-blown shaking, his fear from becoming crippling panic, was a shifting in the fog.  He thought he saw a shape…

The shape spoke, arrogant and self-satisfied again, “I’m glad I could get through to you.  It would be a pity for a genius like yourself not to see reason.” The man speaking, the biggest threat in the metaphorical room, was standing some distance back and to Bond’s right, between the agent and the location where Q knew the Aston Martin to be sitting behind layers of fog. 

Q felt a flush of hope so fierce it nearly unhinged him.  Yes, the man was standing in the right place for this to maybe work. 

“Yes,” he heard himself saying, tone calmer and notably more docile.  He wasn’t anywhere near the actor 007 was, but Q knew enough to slacken his posture and lower his shoulders, so as to come across as resigned.  As of now, he was anything but.  This wasn’t over yet by a long shot.  “I’m willing to see reason, to…roll over,” he repeated, although the words tasted like acid and ash on his tongue.  He couldn’t help but grimace, stomach flipping.

Then Q turned his head, facing 007 again. He called without trying to tamp down the worry running rampant in his voice, “Martin, are you all right?”

007’s eyes flashed – evidence both that he was perfectly alert and aware, and that the Quartermaster had managed to catch him by surprise.  The knife at his throat snugged closer, tipping his head back forcibly and preventing an answer, but that was all right.  Q didn’t need 007 to talk, merely listen.  The Quartermaster immediately turned back to the antagonist deeper in the mist, while also counting any other possible human shape he could see. There were quite a few…possibly as many as twenty, but there could have been twice that or half that, thanks to the cloaking heavy mist.  “Fine. Unless you want to let my man go, there are ten ways this could go down.”

Translation: ten seconds. Then get down. Q started counting in his head, feverishly hoping that 007 was following and would be doing the same. If nothing else, Q knew that the man’s internal clock was impeccable, so he could trust 007 to count with the same stopwatch precision that Q was capable of himself. Countdown already started, Q began distracting their opponent for those ten seconds that 007 had to find a way to circumvent the knife at his neck.

Behind his back, the Quartermaster was pushing buttons on his phone by touch.

A bubble of cruel laughter was the unimpressed response.  “There’s only _one_ way this is going, my dear boy. Un-holster that pistol I can see at your side, and toss it to the ground.” 

Q did so.  He didn’t toss the gun far, but he didn’t plan on using it immediately anyway.  His phone was no doubt quite noticeable in his other hand, but no one paid it any mind, except 007, whose slitted eyes were subtly tracking it.  The man still had given no indication that he was anything except for slightly conscious, or that he had even comprehended the substitution of his name for the car’s, and Q’s hinting words. 

“Obedience is a good look for you, Quartermaster,” was the next arrogant comment Q had to tolerate.

It was surprisingly easy to put up with, thanks to the numbers that had nearly reached zero in his head. Q tilted his head as if interested, and felt a dry hint of a smile tip up the very corners of his mouth. “Is it?” he asked, all frigid nonchalance. 

Then Q pushed a button on his phone while simultaneously dropping to the ground.  He didn’t have time to check on 007, as the ground was already coming up to painfully meet the Quartermaster’s elbows and chest and knees, face burying against brittle, dry grass.  If he’d had his head up, he’d have seen a sudden flare of headlights like two vast predatory eyes opening up, seconds before the gun turrets he’d added to the Aston Martin popped up and began strafing the area in front of them in an efficient, back-and-forth pattern. 

There were screams, shouts, and above all the rapid-fire cracks of bullets being spat out.  It was chaos.  Knowing precisely how high he’d set those guns when he’d put them in and programmed their firing pattern, the Quartermaster gritted his teeth and forced himself to roll, reaching for his .38 Special to scoop it up from where he’d discarded it. Once he had the weapon, he punched a button in his phone again – briefly turning off the weaponized Aston Martin – and then beat the fastest retreat he could back into Skyfall lodge.

Continued bellowing from multiple voices told Q what he’d already expected, that he hadn’t killed everyone. That was both good and bad, because he had obviously wanted 007 to survive, but it meant the fight wasn’t over. The temptation to look back was almost enough to tear the dark-haired young man in half, but he was kept from pausing and looking over his shoulder by a bullet winging past his shoulder. Right.  Those not dead were clearly angry – that was just barmy. Q skidded in the door and thanked god that the house was mostly stone, as another bullet ricocheted off rock instead of hitting him. 

Once the walls had provided some marginal safety, however, the Quartermaster couldn’t stop himself from leaning up against the nearest window, peaking out.

What he saw made him grin like a madman.

007 was back in the game.

~^~

In hindsight, it had probably been the startling flare of headlights that had given Bond the opening he’d been waiting for. Everyone always said that when given an inch, 007 took a mile, and clearly he’d taken a split-second of inattention and turned it into a bid for freedom.  By the time Q was back in the house and peaking out, Bond was free of the knife at his throat and had already (how, Q had no idea) moved his bound hands from behind him to in front of him. 

There were at least four dead bodies on the ground, but Bond was the first to regain his feet, proving that he was far, _far_ from dead. When the Aston Martin’s guns stopped killing people, 007 took over the job.  Q watched with nearly hysterical relief as Bond took the nearest weapon to hand – the knife that had been at his throat, but was now in lifeless fingers – and turned on the next man to move.  Notably, 007’s wrists were still locked securely in handcuffs, but even from this distance Q could see that it was hardly slowing the agent down.

The main threat was still buried in the fog.  Q realized that the distraction of the Aston Martin had bought them time, but the novelty of the nasty surprise would soon be wearing off, and those who had been out of reach previously would come boiling out of the mists.  Or, worse yet, would remain hiding there.  Q, fortunately, knew how to at least fix the latter problem.

With a few more taps on his mobile, Q remotely set off some of the bombs they had hidden further from the house.

The shrieks of surprise were immensely gratifying.  007 was locked in combat with another man who seemed to outclass him in size, but was nothing like him in fighting prowess, and when the other man turned to the blast in surprise, 007 slipped past his guard and rammed the knife right up through his lower jaw.  Q had to look away then, reminded yet again of how real this all was. 

Seconds later, his phone was ringing – Bond’s phone again. 

Q slid down against the wall and answered, invisible hackles rising even as gunfire enlivened the world outside. Before he could snap at this opponent who refused to die…a more familiar voice filled his ear, that of an ally who likewise seemed quite averse to dying.

“Quartermaster.  Sorry for losing your tech again.  I’m sorry to say that the man who had this previously is still in the wind.”

“How are you on the phone, Bond?” Q exclaimed impulsively, deciding to ignore his failure to kill the leader of their opponents, “You’re supposed to be staying alive!”

“I’m pinned down behind the Aston Martin.” There did, indeed, seem to be a lot of metallic, percussive noises – both from outside and via the phone’s connection. Bond sounded as idle as a cat on a sunny porch, of course, “Figured this would be the best time to check in, like a good agent.”

“A good agent would have worn an earpiece.”

“That’s probably why I’m never a good agent then.”

There were a few sporadic screams, none Bond’s, but signaling that 007 had found the opportunity to return fire. Q once again chanced a peak out the covered window and saw a stranger cross foolishly in front of the car’s glaring headlights, probably trying to flank the agent beyond. Taking the phone briefly from his ear, the Quartermaster did what he did best, and offered assistance from afar: the guns awoke again from the hood of the Aston Martin.  Another enemy dropped, riddled with bullets.

“Not bad,” he heard 007 compliment when he brought the phone back to his ear.  “Any more tricks hidden up your sleeves there, Q?”

“Don’t you dare start up with that joking tone while we’re in the middle of a warzone.”

“This hardly qualifies as a warzone. You need at least a tank for that.”

“How in the world are you snarking at me while also returning fire?”

“We all have our skills,” 007 returned with very obvious smugness, and Q could imagine that razor-cut grin. “We’re arguing like a married couple now, I hope you know.”

The Quartermaster groaned in defeat. “I give up.  There is nothing of this conversation to be salvaged. How many enemy shooters do we have left?”

“Anywhere between a dozen and a score.” Bond’s voice lost some of its joviality. “I’m really starting to bloody hate this fog.”

“You picked the location.”

“True.”  Suddenly the veneer of lightness and calm disappeared, as swiftly as a sheet being ripped away.  “Q, get deeper into the house!  Towards the tunnel. _Now_.”

Q had never heard this tone before. 007 was usually an icy-cold entity, even when – especially when – people were trying to kill him. The man had Freon for blood and a heart that was probably frosted over from pumping it, but suddenly it sounded like an inferno in his voice.  The Quartermaster actually jumped where he was kneeling, free hand going unconsciously for his .38 even as he started automatically obeying.  “Bond-?” he started to ask.

The agent on the other end of the line was still talking as if a fire had been lit in his soul, words rough and full of enough heat to scorch, “Stop talking and get the bloody fuck down that escape tunnel, Q.”  Then Bond snarled like a wolf with its teeth bared, the sound so animal and full of warning that Q was glad that the sound didn’t seem to be made for him. 

The desire to demand what had changed, to ask what was going on or look back outside, warred with the part of Q that was built around common-sense.  In the end, the latter won out, if only because an irritating little voice of logic reminded him that he’d agreed to follow 007’s lead – Q knew tech, but 007 knew life-and-death situations.  The Quartermaster, staying below the level of the boarded-up windows as a precaution, took to his heels and began scampering deeper into the house. He kept the phone on and in his right fist.

It wasn’t seconds later that he heard the front door splinter open.  “-At all costs! We’ve got that bastard of a bodyguard of his pinned down outside, but we need to find that asset of his quickly,” Q caught a bellow that sounded like a far more furious version of the voice he’d heard on the mobile earlier.  “ _Find him_!”

Q didn’t have to be a genius to know who ‘him’ was.  A fox fleeing before incoming hounds, the Quartermaster’s feet tore lightly across the remaining distance between himself and safety.  He gave up on the idea of being sneaky and quiet, favoring speed as chaos engulfed the world around him.  Q was moving so swiftly, in fact, that he ended up skidding right _into_ the hidden doorway, and had to collect himself for precious heartbeats before he could get the low opening ajar.  Ducking, he slipped in, almost immediately noticing a before-unnoticed level of claustrophobia on his part.  Even after flicking on the string of bare light-bulbs that lit his way, the tunnel was tiny and the walls close, hugging up around him as if eager to collapse.  Blaming it on adrenalin and a decidedly overactive imagination, the Quartermaster pushed back the fear and moved forwards. 

The sounds of battle and the party hunting for him in the house had disappeared the second Q closed the secret doorway behind him, and he once again wondered why on earth Skyfall lodge would have a tunnel like this.  Various answers presented themselves, of course, but all the Quartermaster knew for sure was that the tunnel felt like an extended, barely-lit tomb, and he wanted out of it. The passageway eventually enlarged enough for him to almost run if he kept his head ducked for light-bulbs, but it went on forever, seemingly.  He paused just once to place the mobile to his ear, holding his breath to hear…dial tone. Bond had hung up his end. At least hopefully he’d broken the line voluntarily.  The urge to call him back was just as powerful and stupid as the urge to run back and help the 00-agent. 

It was only thanks to the relative silence of the tunnel, now that Q’s own footsteps weren’t echoing in it, that he heard other feet coming his way.  He spun around, seeing a broad-shouldered shape and for a split-second hoping it was 007.

007 would have warned him, though.

Tensing and praying that he was right, the Quartermaster replaced his phone in his hands with his gun, and brought it up. 

There was no time for hesitation, and Q pulled the trigger while also nudging the muzzle of his gun down almost unconsciously.  What would have been a nasty shot to the chest instead took out a knee, and the man who’d turned the corner – a stranger, Q noted with eminent relief – cried out so loudly that it nearly was audible above the thunderous report of the gunshot. Nearly deafened himself, shocked by what he’d done so swiftly, it took the sensation of dirt falling in speckles across his shoulders to get the Quartermaster focused again. He tore his eyes away from the mess of gristle and bone that had once been a human knee, and blinked at the dust that had been rattled loose from the ceiling.  Dazed, ears ringing, Q turned lethargically when he heard his would-be-attacker snarl something at him.  It was a death-threat, Q’s stunned brain translated a beat later, but the stranger’s gun had skidded across the ground when he’d fallen. The Quartermaster retrieved the weapon and retreated quickly, feeling his heart hammering and hoping that he had a bit of time before the shock of it all hit him.

He could still recall the last man he’d shot, a blood-red flash of memory across his mind’s eye.

“I suggest you stay put, or limp back the way you came,” Q suggested, detached and steady, a handgun in both hands now but no interest in using either.  Before more verbal abuse could be rained down on his head, the bespectacled young man turned and started running again, stuffing the second gun into a large coat-pocket so that he could keep at least one hand free. Reality was starting to catch up with him in the form of a fine tremor in his hands, a sporadic shaking that had nothing to do with cold or weakness. 

When Q finally got up out of the tunnel and onto the moors again, it was like breaking through the waves after being underwater.  He actually drew in a little gasp, relishing the open spaces and clear air.  At the last second, he thought to stay low, rolling away from the open tunnel and just resting a moment on his belly.  The grass here was taller, but the fog was finally starting to thin.

The tunnel had exited far out from the house, so that the continued gunfight echoed strangely, as if the walls of mist themselves were throwing the echoes back and forth for the fun of it. It all felt strangely detached from where Q caught his breath in the grass.  He could almost imagine that this had nothing to do with him…

But it did, and 007 was still in the thick of it. 

“Bond’s going to hate me for this,” Q muttered to himself even as he purposefully straightened, actually hoping that the air was clear enough for someone to see him.  Then he took his bearings, found the spot he wanted just a few yards behind a group of three men heading towards the Aston Martin, and began shooting.  For a moment, no one noticed – it was just more gunfire in a game full of gunfire, and Q wasn’t aiming at anything living.  As Q’s aim and his photographic memory finally lined up, however, and he hit the bomb he and 007 had buried in the dirt earlier…well, that was far harder to ignore.

Earth and fire erupted outwards, actually managing to knock one man down with the debris.  Q wished that his targets had been closer, but philosophically accepted that beggars couldn’t be choosers.  Besides, he’d succeeded in his real goal: people were looking at him now. 

Q immediately crouched to make a smaller target of himself and started sprinting away.

It came as no shock that his phone started vibrating a second later, and Q (gun holstered again, because he didn’t trust himself not to shoot himself in the foot if he tripped while carrying it) immediately snapped it up to his ear.  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” 007’s lethally low growl filled his ear. 

“Making good use of some of the traps we made,” Q panted, somehow finding levity now that 007 was the one who sounded like he wanted to string someone up and gut them, “It would be a shame to waste them.”

“You were supposed to stay out of sight. Safe.”

“Yes, well, that worked until someone followed me down the tunnel.  I’m fine, but it left me disinclined to stay put,” Q replied as blandly as he could as he started to get a stitch in his side.  Drat.  He wasn’t used to this much exercise.  “Besides, you looked like you could use some assistance.”

“Don’t be flippant, Q,” 007 warned, so clearly angry that it actually surprised Q – because he suddenly realized that this wasn’t a mask, or a fabricated response, but an actual emotion burning its way through Bond’s voice. 

That coaxed Q to reply in kind, voice a bit harder but no longer pretending that the situation wasn’t deadly serious, “I’m not.  I’m being our _Quartermaster_.  And your friend, maybe.”  He’d have to think about that last one, because so far as he knew, 007 didn’t _have_ any friends…but Q was _definitely_ something more than a colleague.  “One way or another, I’m strongly inclined to keep you from dying. Now what do you want me to do?”

The return to professionalism seemed to help, as he heard 007 inhale.  There was less gunfire now, but more immediate sounds of shouting and pursuit, drawing mortifyingly close already.  Q felt very real fear crawl up his throat.  When Bond spoke again, it was in that flat, frozen-over voice that came so unnaturally easy to the man on missions, “Keep moving.  You’ve drawn everyone’s attention, and they don’t want to shoot you.  I’m going to reload and come after you.”

“Okay.”  Q could do that.  He could also lead his pursuers on a merry game of ‘follow the leader,’ in which anyone who did not follow precisely where the leader stepped was liable to set off a miniature landmine. 

“If they catch you, don’t fight. They might rough you up a bit, but you’re valuable – remember that.  If you don’t give them a reason to do otherwise, they’ll be careful to keep you in good condition,” 007 went on as sensibly as a manual being read off.

Q shuddered as he ran, missing a step and stumbling for a horrible moment before picking up his stride again. While Q was a decently fast fellow, he could tell with just a glance that there were men far more athletic already catching up behind him.  “Bond…” he started to say, suddenly realizing that what he’d done was idiocy – heroic idiocy, but idiocy nonetheless. 

“You’ll be fine, Q.” Q heard a gunshot, and while it didn’t hit him, he heard a hard thud behind him.  A swift and startled look over his shoulder showed one pursuer face-down on the ground, never to rise again.  From the phone still pressed to one ear, 007’s merciless voice continued at a rumble, “I said that no one would touch you but me, and that was a promise.”

Another shot.  People were turning now, Q could tell that without even looking. Perhaps everyone had gotten so fixated on their quarry that they’d thought the bodyguard out of commission, something to be left behind and forgotten, but 007 was proving that they hadn’t injured him _nearly_ enough to take him out of the equation.  The shots sounded different, louder, and Q wondered for a moment if 007 had found himself a sniper rifle of some sort. 

Another shot.  Another body tumbling through the grass.  It had been a mistake for them to turn their backs on Bond. There was uncertainty now in where to turn, what flank to watch for, and by the time a few smarter criminals made to shoot back the way they’d come, 007 was whittling them down.

Q skidded.  He was startled to find himself standing on ice instead of golden, brittle grass and earth.  Unsure of his footing and nearly bent in half by the stitch in his side, the Quartermaster sucked in air and tried to gauge the situation.  There were…five men.  He could see five behind him, strung out between himself and Skyfall. Although his brain was in a panic and lacking oxygen terribly, Q managed to call up his mental map in time to once again trade out his phone for his gun, and fire off three shots before finally triggering another hidden bomb.  This time, the blast radius was enough to at least knock one man unconscious. By Q’s own counting, he would have to reload new bullets soon, and that made him hesitate even more to actually aim his .38 Special at a living person again. 

The firefight was starting up again, but this time long-distance, and Q honestly had no idea where 007 was shooting from.  Neither did anyone else, it seemed, as one of the enemy gunmen tried to crouch out of sight but still got spun around with a painful bullet to the shoulder.

It wasn’t until a bullet – one from Bond – came whizzing dangerously close past Q’s side that he realized that there was a person missing, an irritating voice that has been silent for too long.

Behind him, the voice from earlier commanded, “Just stay right where you are, Quartermaster.  I think that your bodyguard almost put a bullet in you there, trying to hit me.”  As Q immediately made to turn and face the leader of this gang, he was halted by a swift chiding, “Uh-uh-uh.  I said stay put. I’ve got a gun, too, and right now there’s no way in hell I could miss putting a bullet right through your spinal column.” 

There were no more gunshots now, no more noise except the last dying echoes.  Looking around with quick, tense eyes, Q realized that that was because everyone was _dead_.  Except the man barely a yard or so behind him, Bond wherever he was shooting from, and Q, stuck in the middle. 

Q wanted to laugh madly at how familiar this was.  He wondered if Bond would shoot through him again, just to hit his target.  The thought was dreadfully unappealing, and Q felt his stomach try to crawl up his throat at the promise of pain, and shock. There was already more violence than he was used to handling, and now, it was all he could do to hold it together as someone aimed a weapon at his unprotected back.  The ice groaned under his feet. 

“Come out and show yourself!” the man behind Q hollered, clearly wanting 007’s attention.  His voice was so loud that Q flinched, and that was how he remembered the .38 Special he still held in his hand.  He looked at it with dazed shock, is if he’d magically conjured the thing out of thin air.  “Don’t even think about it.”  Q’s foe had noticed it, too.  “You can’t have many bullets left anyway, if any,” the man went on, and while his teasing had a nervous edge to it, the words still held a jovial, cruel bite, “Do you think you could peg me before I put you down like a dog?  Not bloody likely.  It’s your friend that has the lethal aim, not you, and even he can’t shoot _around_ people.”  He spoke up again, and gave away more of his anxiety by the way his words scraped and clawed their way out of his mouth, desperate and harsh, “What’s-your-name – Martin!  Either you show your cowardly face or I remove your reason for being a bodyguard!”

“He’s not the obedient type,” Q somehow had the nerve to mention, voice only a little shaky, but soft. He tensed in preparation for repercussions, but all he got was an angry snarl from behind him. To keep his brain busy, the Quartermaster tried to triangulate where he thought Bond had been shooting from, and then tried to calculate his own chances of taking out their one remaining antagonist before he was killed in return.  With one bullet left in his clip, the chances were not promising, and Q’s hand was already sweaty against the .38’s grip. 

Then, unexpectedly enough that Q’s mouth actually dropped open, he saw 007 rise up like a wraith, half of his face still bloody and a rifle at his side alongside the handcuff now dandling from just one wrist.  The gun was a long and lethal shape, and clearly 007 was a pro with it, but right now it pointed earthward. 

All Q could think was, ‘ _Why did you choose_ now _to obey orders_?!’  He could have screamed.  007 had somehow managed to move closer since this all started, and was now poised between Q and the house, his hard expression just barely visible – it was one of his flat, unreadable looks, the kind he had when he was between masks. There was no emotion there, merely sky-blue eyes and a rugged face carved from marble.  “Happy?” Bond called, raising his voice just enough to let it carry to the two men standing over the frozen pond.

The chuckle behind Q sounded a bit relieved, but also very delighted.  “Immensely.”

“Well,” Q huffed, tired of being ignored and furious that 007 had given up his hiding place, “I’m not.” And with that, he pulled the trigger on his handgun and sent a bullet straight down into the fragile ice beneath his feet.

The impact of the bullet immediately had fractures spreading outwards like the fingers of a massive lightning bolt, and the world dripped out from beneath Q’s feet.  He hadn’t had a lot of time to think about this (like every other plan he’d executed today), but even if he had, he realized that he could not have comprehended just how cold the water was beneath him. As he plunged straight into it, the shock tore the air right out of his lungs in an exhale so involuntary that he may as well have been kicked in the chest.  Water rushed into his mouth and ears, surging around his head as it was the last to sink under.  Q may as well have been naked for all the good his clothing seemed to do, keeping him warm – the frigidity of the water was like a monster, swallowing him whole, pure cold sinking teeth into his very bones.  The Quartermaster wondered why in the world this had seemed like a good plan.

He thrashed, needing to get out of the water.  He thought he’d heard more ice breaking, more yelling that wasn’t his before water was everywhere, and maybe that meant he’d broken more ice than he’d thought. Still, regardless of whether his foe was in the water or above it, all of the Quartermaster’s instincts were screaming that he needed to get out of this crushing, burning, _airless_ cold.  Lungs already burning, Q tried to push towards where he thought the surface was, but his wet clothing was already weighing him down.  He’d dropped the gun, obviously, but even with his hands free he didn’t seem to be doing a very good job of swimming, as all of his muscles locked up – they wanted to shiver, wanted to create heat, while all Q wanted them to do was _work_.  Gravity and darkness dragged him down as the urge to breathe grew increasingly unbearable.

Q didn’t realize that he was even facing the surface until suddenly a hand plunged down to get him. A grip like iron found his wrist more by luck than design, and then it was pulling upwards.  Q was sure that his shoulder would come out of its socket, and the water created a drag around him that made it feel like a billion hands, loathe to see him leave.  Q’s head broke clear with a blast of chilly air, and he felt more ice crack and give under his weight – but he was being pulled onto a firmer section, hauled inexorably onto ice that held his weight while Q coughed and gasped and let himself be moved.

“Q – _Q_!” Bond’s voice was urgently shouting at him, but at least Q’s water-logged ears weren’t registering any gunshots.  Still dangerously mad-sounding in his own right, Bond went on, but added in almost-rueful disbelief, “How the hell did you manage to keep your glasses on?”

Spitting out a bit more lake-water that had managed to get into his mouth, Q laughed weakly at the unexpected question.  He had to force his eyes open and blink a few times to realize that it was actually true. “You…” he panted, lips tipping up in a faint smile as he started to shiver hard, “You keep…your gun. I k-k-keep my glasses. Quartermaster’s prerogative.”

“You’re bloody insane. Do you know that?”

“Calling the kettle black there, aren’t you, d-d-d-double-oh-seven?” Q managed to look up. 

Bond was squatted in front of him, rather wet himself from dragging Q out, although the water had at least done something to sluice the worst of the blood off his face.  He had one handcuff on, but up close, it looked like a well-placed bullet had served to remove the other one.  He still appeared peeved and livid with tension, and the look he was favoring Q with now had to hold the most emotion – real, obviously sincere emotion – that Q had ever seen.  It closely resembled fear and worry.  MI6’s best agent just managed to shutter the emotional reaction away a second later, but Q had already seen it before the competent, steady mask erased it all. Firm hands wrapped around each of Q’s upper arms.  “Come on. Before you freeze solid to the ice.”

Teeth already chattering too hard to ask what had happened to the remaining gunman, the smaller man entrusted himself to 007’s strength, as the larger man moved them both the rest of the way off the little pond before taking off on a tangent.  Their destination turned out to be closer than the house: one of their opponent’s cars.  It was still running as if its owners had expected a quick getaway once they had grabbed their prize.  Q chuckled at the idea, realizing that he sounded rather cracked.  007 didn’t comment, but instead got the door open and shoved Q in. Reaching past without getting in himself, 007 filled Q’s field of vision with his muscular torso for a moment as he cranked the heat up in the vehicle as high as it would go. Hawk-sharp eyes turned to Q then. “Are you injured?”

“N-N-No, I don’t think so,” the smaller man got out between the spasmodic shivers that locked his jaws. His hair was plastered to his forehead and dripping wetly on his nose. 

“Good.  That’s good.”  007 repeated himself as if he needed the reminder, but swiftly forced himself back into the professional mold he usually maintained out in the field. “Stay here and warm up – strip out of as many wet clothes as you can.  I’ve got to make sure that we’ve actually cleared the area.  Then I’ll be back, all right, Q?”

“You s-s-s-said you’d be right b-b-back last time,” Q reminded, gathering enough spunk to look down his nose at the agent.  He probably looked like a bedraggled cat, and 007 was hovering over him, so the effect was probably minimal.

It was enough to trick a tiny, barely noticeable smile onto the agent’s face, however.  “I’ll try harder to stay out of trouble this time, Quartermaster. Promise.”  With that, he leaned back out of the car and pushed the door shut, sealing Q in with the blasting of the heaters.  Swearing at the sensation of warmth returning to his fingertips – turning them into pins and needles – the Quartermaster bent forward stiffly to drag his sopping coat off, as ordered.  After that, however, he was just too drained to do anything. Bending forward in exhaustion over his knees, feeling the vents blast hot air onto his face, head, and neck, the Quartermaster waited for Bond’s return.

‘ _We did it_ ,’ he realized, and could barely believe it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Whew!* Well, we're drawing to a close here - so I'll try and finish this up before I leave the country! It would be evil to make you guys wait over a month for the last chapter(s) of this fic, and I'm dying to write it all up and share it...
> 
> As always, a million thanks to my editor, who got this back to me early so that I could then _post_ it early! (^w^) *hugs for her*


	21. Together Again Whole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q's freezing, Bond's tense, and there is clearly only one way to fix this...
> 
> (If anyone guessed that this solution includes lots of skin and hot water, you'd be right. And fluff. And feels. Both definitions of 'feel', really...)
> 
> On a side-note, this chapter was nearly called: _Killer, Liar, Lover, Spy_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, my editor deserves an award! Since I've been on a plane and/or learning things about my study abroad program all week, I didn't get much typing time - so I literally tossed this chapter to my editor just yesterday!
> 
> And voila: it's back already!!! O_O If I could edit that swiftly and efficiently, my English teachers would love me more...
> 
> Enjoy, everyone! I'll type as I can, in between studying :)

Q didn’t realize that he’d drifted off until the opening of the car-door woke him, a jerk of sound in a world that had gone dark and silent and not-quite-cozy thanks to the car’s warmth. The heater was laboring for all if was worth, but Q was about as soaked as a person could get, and he hadn’t gotten any further than removing his coat before the last bout of adrenalin had abandoned him to exhaustion.  Now, cold air rushed in along with 007, who would always be an embodiment of ice, with his glacial eyes and surgically economical movements honed to smoothness like an icicle.  “You with me, Quartermaster?” he asked briskly, quick to shut the door again. 

Blinking bleary eyes and belatedly taking in the agent next to him, Q remembered that Bond hadn’t exactly come out of the pond incident dry either.  He didn’t look frosted, though, and besides a hard, full-body shake like a dog rattling dust off its coat, he seemed largely unaffected by the chill. “Yes and no,” Q answered, annoyed to find that his teeth still chattered a bit.  He sat up more and grimaced at the way his clothing clung and pulled at his skin like clingy, needy hands.  “I’m coherent, but must admit to being at less than my best.”

Bond’s mouth twitched upwards in a smirk as he put the car swiftly into drive.  “Understandable,” he replied.  It came out smoothly, like a formulaic answer, but there were lots of little things that gave away the fact that 007 wasn’t at the top of his game either: he was still a bloody mess, and the remnants of his brief stint in handcuffs were still evident on his left wrist. 

“Is that a fashion statement, or did you forget how to pick locks?” Q couldn’t help but quip out of reflex. He was favored by a raised eyebrow, one of 007’s patented ‘unimpressed’ looks.  “Don’t give me that face.  I’ve seen you unlock cuffs while half-dead and concussed. There have been times when honestly, magic is the only explanation for how in the world you got out of the bloody things.”

“That tells you that the situation is somewhat different this time then, doesn’t it?” was the surprisingly tetchy reply, and 007 was looking back at the terrain in front of them again before the Quartermaster could fully register surprise.  At that point, the smaller man grew alert enough to notice Bond’s white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, and the way his shoulders kept flexing beneath his coat – the restless shifting of a tense predator. Bond softened his previous answer by amending, “Haven’t had the opportunity.  I’ll get them off as soon as we’re back and you’re less likely to freeze to death.”

Q didn’t entirely believe that answer, but let it go at that, realizing that Bond didn’t need him prodding right now. “So there are no more threats?” he asked, huddling up in his seat and leaning in towards the heater again. The edges of his hair were getting fluffy, but most of him still felt icily waterlogged. 

“I got a bit of a surprise when someone came limping and cursing out of the tunnel,” Bond noted, and Q flushed, recalling the enemy operative he’d maimed and then left without another thought. “Took care of him. I went ahead and checked to make sure there were no more excitable entities interested in another go at us,” Bond finished with succinct callousness.  This was all in a day’s work for him, and if he was a bit more brittle-edged than usual – all teeth with very little charm to hide them – it could be blamed on his injuries. 

And maybe, just a little, on the fact that Q had almost died. 

“I shouldn’t need to tell you this, but that stunt you pulled on the pond was stupid,” Bond informed Q quite blandly.

“I prefer to think of it as brilliant.”

“I think I could have killed the bastard without getting you quite this cold and wet,” 007 continued the argument without changing his careless tone or taking his eyes off the nonexistent road.

“Hmm.  Perhaps,” Q allowed, “But I’d prefer a dunk in a frozen pond to another superficial bullet-wound.”

“Touché,” Bond surprisingly admitted, and his mouth kicked up at one side.  With that half-smile still in place, his voice lowered, dropping into a deadlier octave as he added, “He was dead before your head went underwater. I didn’t want to shoot you again, so I waited, but as soon as you started dropping out of the way-” Bond’s left hand lifted from the steering wheel to indicate as he spoke, “-I put a bullet in his skull, his throat, and his heart.  He’s at the bottom of the pond now, I think.” 

Staring at the agent next to him, Q blinked once, twice, three times as he swallowed the reminder that this was what 007 did – this was what he _was_. He was the best that MI6 had ever seen, and sometimes the best meant being the worst. “That which does not kill me does not get the chance to try again,” he repeated a phrase he knew, although his voice was more hollow and less playful than intended.  It took effort not to dwell on that fact that this particular death was overkill even by Bond’s lethal standards. 

“Exactly,” agreed Bond. He gave his wrist an irritated shake against the cuff, clearly regretting not having removed it yet, and added with a coldly promising tone, “That which so much as tries to kill the Quartermaster of MI6 is going to have very, very little time to think about how monumentally stupid an idea that was.”

~^~

As it turned out, Bond had also taken the time to move some of the motion sensors.  Q hadn’t known because his phone was at the bottom of the pond, and therefore unlikely to receive any signals, but his laptop back at the house would no doubt have taken in the new information.  “I also called M,” 007 said, as he parked practically at the front door.  There was no need for decorum when the place was shot up so badly and the area around it was littered with bodies.  Q was almost glad that he was so cold, because the shivering and mindless need to find warmth was a great distraction from everything else.  As if in consideration of the fact that the Quartermaster had reached his quota of death and violence for the day, 007 had toned down his razorblade nature and was acting quite…normal.  At least as ‘normal’ as he ever got while still being intrinsically himself, with his cat’s-paw steps and his miss-nothing eyes.  Those eyes were on Q now, attentive and an ever paler blue now that the fog was finally fading, and a few pathetic tendrils of sunlight were sifting down in an attempt to lighten the landscape.  “It turns out that there was a mole, but he’s being dealt with.”

Halfway between the car and the ajar door to Skyfall, Q once again found himself just blinking and staring. He’d been hoping to go from one source of warmth to another as swiftly as possible, and had dashed rather clumsily from his side of the car only to be frozen (metaphorically and rather literally) where he was.  Eventually, as his teeth started chattering again, he stated flatly, “That is good news that I will appreciate far more when I’m not an ice-cube.  And when you don’t look like you rolled around in a butcher’s shop.”

“Not all of us can have a bath in the middle of a gun-fight,” 007 had the audacity to joke with one of his crystalline smiles, but he also moved forward, sheltering Q naturally in the curve of one arm and sharing what little heat he still had as they both escaped inside. Bond limped a little, but refused to acknowledge that he was possibly leaning on his Quartermaster the teensiest bit, so Q didn’t mention. 

Unsurprisingly, it was cold in there, too. Q could have screamed, but pacified himself by finding his laptop while 007 got the stove good and hot again. “Sit,” Bond ordered, physically moving Q from place to place while the Quartermaster remained curled around his laptop as if he and the machine had grown into one entity. 

Now they were in the kitchen, and Bond’s firm hands forced Q to fold his legs up and sit down on an unexpected nest of blankets thrown together right in front of the stove.  Heat rolled off it against his front, and he felt as if he went unstrung as he closed his eyes and sighed.  “So you said M found the mole?” he brought up the earlier topic, fingers leaving his laptop to hover as close as safely possible above the heated iron skin of the stove.

“Yes,” came the answer, already from a room away.  Logically, Q knew that Bond was checking the place and…removing bodies.  Emotionally, the Quartermaster was done thinking about that sort of thing until he had time to recover his equilibrium a bit. He mostly just hoped that 007 hadn’t overestimated his own stamina, because the agent was likely more mentally inured to death and destruction, but bodily he was far more banged up than Q was.  Bond still seemed full of restless energy, though, crackling beneath bruised and bloody skin.

“So that means she’s found out more about who and how many are after us?” Q hazarded logically, and was relieved to be given another affirmative. 

“After I gave out our location, M was able to verify that the wave we faced today was the worst of it. You’ve still got too many fucking admirers, but MI6 now has a list of all of them from the mole, so we can expect an end to hostilities.”

The way Bond said ‘an end to hostilities’ gave it a derisive lilt, but he came back into the room then, and his arctic eyes looked less lethal and more…tired.  It was a slightly less armored look than before, and that more than anything had Q exhaling and accepting the fact that this really was over.

Bond was the one who said it out loud, though, leaning against the nearest doorframe.  At some point between now and when Q had last looked at him, he’d lost the handcuff, although his wrist was still chafed red. “We’re safe now.”

A hysterical little bark of laughter bubbled up Q’s throat, quickly stifled, although his grin probably still looked a bit manic as he failed to wipe it off his face.  “You know the only thing that would sound better than that? A bath.  A hot bath, one that doesn’t smell like ice-water and wet clothing.”

“You’re in luck then,” Bond somehow still had some charm left in him, because there was mischief in his eyes and the warmth looked half real, “That can be arranged.”  He pushed off from the wall.

“I’ll just finish checking this on my end,” Q indicated vaguely at his laptop, turning awkwardly on his blanket-nest so that his back was to the furnace but his computer wasn’t being washed by heat. 007 was already heading off down the hall to start running water.  Q called after him, “And when I get in there, you’re going to sit still while I look at your head!”

“I’m sure I will,” was the vaguely challenging reply, but it made Q smile again, softer this time. As Quartermaster, his training was in areas far removed from anything remotely medical, but he hoped that getting a good look at Bond would at least reassure him that the agent wasn’t mortally wounded, and would heal up all right.  The man often acted indestructible, but he really wasn’t – he was flesh and blood, even if he showed the world an ironclad persona of steel and Freon instead. 

It took only a few more moments for Q to be sure that the perimeter sensors were reading accurately in their new locations (better safe than sorry, if more trouble rolled in), and then the Quartermaster was closing his laptop and standing up awkwardly. His limbs had stiffened up like tree branches in winter, it felt like, and he hugged himself through a full-body shiver. “Damn,” he muttered to himself before squelching down the hall, too eager for the promise of warm water to stop and kick off his shoes.

There was steam – actual, warm steam! – curling out of the bathroom, but Q realized that he didn’t really relax and enjoy it until he had his eyes on Bond, alert and still alive near the sink. He had needle and thread out, and there were already drops of red in the porcelain basin.  “Shit!” Q hissed impulsively, hoping that his recent increase in swearing wasn’t going to follow him back to MI6. He tried and failed not to watch the spectacle that was a 00-agent sewing himself back together again. Blue eyes met his in the mirror, wearing no expression at all, merely the inflectionless look that was…all Bond. He was neither embarrassed nor impressed, neither prideful nor troubled.  The only sign that he was human at all was the way he winced as he finished off the neat stitch up near his hairline.  “I would have helped,” Q informed him, scowling and a bit hurt.

“No offense, Quartermaster, but I’ve had more practice at this than you have,” was Bond’s response, and as much as that made Q bridle a bit, he knew the agent was right.  “Plus, I’ve had time to warm up my hands, and yours still look a bit shaky and blue.”

Now there was logic Q couldn’t refute: he glanced down at his fingernails, seeing how they were vaguely purplish still, and abruptly started shivering again.  “Perhaps you have a point.”

“Get undressed, Q. The water’s not going to stay hot forever.”

Bond’s bossy nature – the way he simply assumed any order he gave would be followed – should have been annoying, but like so many other things, Q found that he’d grown accustomed to it. It helped that Bond rarely ordered him around needlessly, and giving in to the commands had always ended well, at least in the long-run.  

Q had also become used to the fact that he was going to end up underdressed in 007’s presence on a regular basis, whether he intended to or not. 

His clothing stuck to him like a clammy second skin, and it was awful.  It didn’t help that he’d barely had the dexterity to type on his laptop, and now the effort of fumbling with buttons and belt-buckles and shoe-laces was suddenly a dastardly chore beyond Q’s abilities.  It was seemingly between one quiet curse and the next that 007 was alongside him, looking a bit more cleaned up than before and with just a bit of dark thread showing at the edge of his hairline.  Wordlessly, Bond assisted in getting Q undressed, first his shirt, then undershirt, then working earthward as calmly and steadily as gravity. Occasional catching in Bond’s movements and grunts of discomfort under his breath were the only things that gave away his own injuries, goading Q to do as much undressing by himself as he could. “I can get it, thank you,” he said, as it came down to the last few articles of clothing.  He was already stripped to the waist.  He met Bond’s eyes to see if this would be challenged, but the agent seemed to be in a rare mood, and merely blinked before giving Q his personal space back.  It was as if Bond had been tired out enough that all of his energy was turned inwards, leaving nothing for superfluous emotions (real or faked).  Q himself was a bit too wrung out to do much better.

He became aware that 007 was undressing, too, just as he was finally standing in nothing but his glasses and his skin.

When Q stepped into the bath, the heat hurt like hell, but it was the best kind of pain he could possibly imagine at that moment, so he put his other foot in with a little hiss. He didn’t realize that he was swearing again until he heard 007 start chuckling, and a glance under his fringe of hair told him that Bond was finally out of his bullet-proof vest and shirt. There was a calico map of bruises underneath that already, marring tanned skin that already held a plethora of old scars. Muscles flexed and coiled as Bond stripped off his trousers, but ultimately seemed content to pause at that point – he had other injuries to attend to.  While Q sank into the bath and lowered himself right up to his ears (the water lapping at his lower lip), Bond was seeing to a nasty graze that had bloodied up the curve of his left shoulder. 

“You all right, Q?” The quiet question broke the stillness of the room a moment later.  It was a remarkably hushed question for a man who lived fast and loud.

Q sat up a bit, water sloshing off his chin and making the very tips of his hair extra heavy with warm water. “I should be asking _you_ that.”

When 007 turned away from the mirror and back to his Quartermaster, it was unexpectedly intimidating. He’d gotten the worst of the blood off himself, but still had the signs of everything that had tried to kill him and failed: bruises, scrapes, cuts, even stitches.  Beneath that was a honed body made for returning such insults in kind, if not with interest.  Even at ease, as he was now, 007 radiated athleticism and dangerous poise from the way he braced his bare feet to the way his muscles lazily eased and clenched beneath his skin. 

But his eyes were tired.

Impulsively, Q sat forward, letting the cooler air touch his back and shoulders ungrudgingly as he beckoned with a tip of his head towards the space he’d freed up behind him, “Come on. You’re making me feel guilty for lounging in the tub while you stand there like a martyr licking your wounds. I’ve set my computer to scream at us if any of those motion sensors are triggered, but until that happens – and I dearly hope it won’t – you may as well soak, too.”

More energy lit up 007’s blue eyes then, the natural glint of intelligence and curiosity tumbled together in a dangerous mix.  Bond shifted his weight as if considering the offer, although he had to shift it back again as the massive bruise on his right thigh clearly protested.  “Sharing a bath is hardly professional,” he reminded, but with a smile that just edged into mischievous.  So he had the energy after all…

“Neither are nearly a dozen things I’ve ended up doing in your company,” Q returned dryly and without hesitation, giving his best unimpressed blink, “I also remember having a conversation with you about people asking for what they want, and right now I bloody want to know that you won’t just keel over dead in the next five minutes, so I’m asking you to get into the fucking tub.”  Q hadn’t realized how vehemently he felt on the matter until he was using his sharp, brittle-edged ‘Quartermaster voice’ that was just shy of shouting. He snapped his mouth shut with a little, embarrassed click of teeth, but didn’t retract his words.

Usually, Bond had a habit of prying at moments like these, teasing into the obvious cracks in Q’s composure and using what he found to manipulate the situation.  This time, however, he merely cocked his head like a golden-hued falcon and then started walking forward with his new limp.  He shed his pants along the way, leaving him as naked as Q was, and making Q blush and avert his eyes despite all logic.  Water rippled and rolled as 007’s weight shortly thereafter sank into the tub at Q’s back. 

“This conversation,” Bond said, pretending to be musing and curious as he settled in.  The water seemed somehow hotter for having him in it, as if the man had a furnace for a soul and it was trying to burn up the water, too. Strong legs slid slowly past Q’s sides, penning him in because there was really no other way that they’d both fit in the same tub.  “Did it also include a lecture about me hinting and insinuating a lot?”

‘ _You bloody well know it did_.’  “Yes,” Q replied, and added more softly, “As well as something about dead men and promises.”  He didn’t want to remember that suddenly, because it reminded him of all the deaths that he had seen today, and how close it had come to taking 007 as well.  And Q himself.  As Q’s body was racked by a shiver that had nothing to do with cold, warm, brawny arms suddenly parted the water around his middle – 007 enfolded Q in his grip and pulled him suddenly close. 

Blood was tinting the water and Bond’s hands were hard and rough where they squeezed Q’s ribs; all of the muscle and bone behind him were likewise an immovable bulwark, even if today had tested its endurance and obstinacy.  All Q could think on, though, was the incredibly deep sigh that was exhaled against the back of his neck as 007 buried his nose and mouth against Q’s nape.

“Will this be the time you die, James?” said the agent unexpectedly, stubble scraping Q’s skin and sending shivers down his spine.  Bond’s possessive grip hadn’t loosened in the slightest; Q was cocooned in it. “That’s what I always ask myself, so many times it doesn’t even bother me anymore.”  Q once again felt himself quiver; the words were like an icy touch that made it past 007’s body heat and the warm water. Bond went on, slow and steady, “But today, when I saw you standing on the ice, was the first time I asked another question.”  Nose brushing into Q’s hair, 007 inhaled deeply, like he hadn’t found real air until now. For a brief moment, he pressed his mouth against one of Q’s vertebrae as if he needed to confirm that Q was there by the taste of him, too.  When Bond’s hot mouth left, he finished, “Will this be the time _Q_ dies, James?”

Silence followed, but it was silence like a mute hurricane, a voiceless avalanche.  It rent and tore, and it rattled the earth, and Q wondered how silences like this could exist.  He found himself gripping Bond’s forearms so hard that his fingertips turned white, and he was sure he forgot to breathe, or to think.  All the while, the 00-agent that was one of MI6’s more unpredictable and heartless weapons sat behind him, waiting.  The only still and solid thing in the world. 

“I didn’t die,” Q finally said, but his voice was a bare shadow of itself.  Just a squeak of sound, and suddenly he wished he was turned to face Bond, but there was no possibility of turning with 007 holding him so tight.

“You _almost_ did.”

“So did you,” Q tried his best to chide. Then he gave up with a halfhearted roll of his eyes and, very purposefully, relaxed all of his muscles until he was limp and relaxing back into 007’s grip.  The agent seemed almost surprised.  “I’m not hurting anything, am I?” Q asked innocently enough, bringing up a too-perfect mental image of all the injuries littering Bond’s skin.

His answer was a rumbled hum a first, reverberating through his spine while also coming from Bond’s mouth, very near his ear.  “Far from it. Since when have a few bruises slowed me down?” Bond reminded with his version of cheer, which always sounded a little hollow, but right now held a kernel of real warmth deep down at its center. Q didn’t know if he’d just never known how to listen for it before, or if it hadn’t existed before.

“You’ve got more than bruises. You’ve probably got a concussion. God, you don’t have any bullets in you, do you?!” Q demanded as the possibility struck him. Only 007 could possibly be so stoic and stubborn as to brush off injuries like that. 

When Q started to twist around to look at him, water sloshing as his elbows flailed, 007 switched his grip with nearly artistic ease, keeping his Quartermaster contained. This still included some mild slipping around in the warm water, but ultimately Q stayed put, tucked between 007’s thighs.  Q had turned around just enough to fix 007’s lazily smug face with a bit of a glower. “Answer my question,” he demanded doggedly.

The smile tucked at the corner of Bond’s mouth spread a little, but he acquiesced.  “No bullets.  Superficial wounds only, albeit a lot of them.  I’ve survived far worse, Q.  Are you done worrying about me now?”

“Are you done worrying about _me_?”

The question had slipped out like some sort of knee-jerk response, but 007’s answer came out equally suddenly: “No.” It seemed to startle both of them a little, until Bond decided to just look away uncomfortably. Meanwhile, his hands took up residence against Q’s ribcage again, pulling him in close with steady strength that meant Q’s brief resistance may as well not have existed. It wasn’t much of a struggle anyway: Q was drained and scraped raw on the inside, and 007’s chest was solid and warm. There were many other bits between them touching, but for the moment, Q focused his brain on the heartbeat pounding steadily beneath his ear while 007 started carding wet fingers through Q’s hair.  Water was lapping at his chin again.  007 had sunk more deeply into the water. 

There were so many kinds of silences, Q found himself reflecting exhaustedly, as this new one settled in like a blanket of steam and gentle stillness.  It wasn’t perfectly quiet: he was listening to Bond’s breath and heartbeat, and the water made soft playful sounds whenever 007 lifted a hand out of it. It was a nice sort of quietude, though. Raising one hand of his own, Q plucked off his glasses, folded them awkwardly one-handed, and managed to reach over the side of the tub to place them on the floor next to it. Bond pulled him quickly back to his torso again, clearly showing is dislike for even the briefest absence. Eyes closing and head nestling more comfortably between Bond’s pectorals, Q definitely didn’t mind, and likewise didn’t jump or protest when 007’s hands began their customary business of wandering.  Smooth and slow, one traveled up and down his flank, from the back of Q’s shoulder to his hip; on his back from the knobby bones of his nape down to the little divots riding on either side of his tailbone, an intimate enough touch to make his breath hitch just a little.  007’s fingertips lingered, thumb rubbing small circles just a bit higher up.

His other hand, this whole time, had seemed remarkably content to just rest with his fingers curled around Q’s right bicep.  Now, however, it loosened and stroked upwards until Q was being roused from his half-doze by knuckles buffing the side of his neck gently.  “Q?”

When Q tipped his head up with a questioning look, 007’s mouth caught his in a swift, unsubtle kiss.

Like everything Bond did, it was a little violent, like the crash of waves upon the sand.  But like everything he ever did _around Q_ , it was all entangled with an impossible, protective gentleness like a big dog playing with a small but inexplicably precious cat. Why the cat was precious had yet to be ascertained, but Q found his gasp swallowed up in Bond’s mouth, the sensations filling his head as strong, scarred hands handled him, moving over his skin with careful strength.  007 pulled him inexorably closer, and Q _moved_ closer, on his own.  Water made little rippling complaints as it was forced out from between the two of them, sloshing warmly around Q’s shoulders and folding ticklishly around his spine between Bond’s clutching fingertips. 

It was a brief kiss, for all that it was fierce, like a flash-fire.  The metaphor matched Bond’s look when Q was able to pull back and meet his eyes: it was one of those looks that promised the world but also promised to burn.

“You named that device of yours _vasatre_ – to lay waste,” Bond rumbled, apropos of nothing, before clarifying with steady gravity, “That’s what I do.  That’s what I _am_.”  His eyes moved, hot and blue, a physical touch that slid across Q’s cheekbone, down his neck, across his shoulders to languidly cover the rest of him in a look that had Q inhaling sharply despite himself, adrenalin lighting up his system in an involuntary response.  Those promise-to-burn eyes landed back on Q’s, making the Quartermaster wonder how such an icy color could hold such fire and intense heat.  “That’s what I want to do to you,” 007 said in one of the most sincere sentences Q had ever heard.  Drawing in a little breath, the Quartermaster felt as though he were looking at the sun without clouds wreathing it now – without space, without atmosphere intervening. A truthful 007 was an intimidating thing, even with bruises and scratches all over him.  One hand still on the small of Q’s back (the other idly massaging through the wet curls at the back of Q’s neck), legs wrapped around him, Bond continued more slowly, ponderingly, “But as much as I want to take you apart, I want to put you back together again.  Now, I wonder why that is?”  He cocked his head as if he really _was_ bemused about that, eyes keen with interest and almost demanding. He was a raven inspecting a human puzzle, lacking nothing in pure ingenuity, but perhaps lacking an intrinsic perspective found only in the average human. 

It was probably an odd day when Q was the closest thing to ‘average human’ around. 

“I assure you,” Q replied, unable to ignore a certain… problem… growing between them.  Although ‘problem’ wasn’t the word he’d use for it, and the innuendo in that entire descriptive sentence had him blushing even in his head. 007 shifted subtly, and Q felt more of his concentration fray into an array of delicious sparks.  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” Q finished breathily, dimpling the muscles of Bond’s chest with tensing fingertips.

Bond flashed a grin that was pure charisma (with a little dash of mischief that didn’t belong on a man who’d nearly died under an hour ago), and he leaned forward again, this time nuzzling in for a kiss.  There was something about the movement…something rare, something artlessly tender that had Q’s eyes closing and the animal interest in his belly transforming into a deeper kind of affection almost instantaneously.  No longer looking, he just let his other senses pull the world in closer. Q felt stubble and the hard planes of a cheekbone and an oft-broken nose press almost questioningly against the corner of his mouth.  Usually Bond took what he wanted, knowing that most people would give it all to him gladly for the promise of a touch and a smile, but now the agent was questing for what he wanted. 

And asking.

“Will you sleep with me, Quartermaster?” The low, quiet murmur of sound reminded Q of a thunderstorm, still far off but with gentle thunder clearing the way before it.  Bond’s right hand still cupped the back of Q’s head, holding him in place so that the blond-haired man could continue nosing along against the edge of his mouth, then nose-to-nose like the subtle hello of a cat.  “Will you trust me to take you apart, but to put you together again whole?” Bond’s hands clenched, possessive and almost desperate, one tugging at Q’s hair and the other powerfully kneading at the lower contours of Q’s flared ribs.  Bond pressed a shockingly gentle kiss to the inner corner of one closed eye. The Quartermaster shuddered with a fizzing, effervescent pleasure as 007’s next words rumbled through him, chest to chest, “Will you trust me to do it again, too, if I asked?”

So many things with Bond were of the same breed: something fleeting, something cold.  This sounded nothing like any of that.  Q raised a hand and buried his fingers almost shakily in the short spikes of Bond’s hair.  He could still feel blood stiffening some of the strands, a reminder not of whom he was with, but _what_.  ‘ _Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy_ ,’ Q’s mind supplied the old book’s title.  He mentally amended it, ‘ _Killer, Liar, Lover, Spy_ ,’ and marveled at the realization that he trusted all of these titles, so long as they were attached to the man in front of him.

“Will you?” Q found himself asking, face so close to Bond’s that it felt like he was less speaking and more mouthing at the agent’s skin.  He added swiftly when he realized he wasn’t making sense, “Ask again, I mean?”

“So long as you want me to,” was the unhesitant reply that sounded unexpectedly like a promise.  Bond caught Q’s lower lip briefly between his teeth, taking advantage of the closeness even as the rest of his body became more interested, and rolled subtly beneath his smaller companion.  “So long as you trust me to.”

“You haven’t broken me beyond repair yet,” Q replied gently and warmly once his mouth was free. He felt a dry smirk stretch across his face, and opened his eyes now to see Bond avidly watching him. “Which is saying a lot, because I get the feeling you usually drive your coworkers and superiors insane within the week.” 

Bond defended himself lazily, shrugging, “M is still sane.  She’s had to deal with me for _years_.”

 “M is an uncommonly strong-willed woman then, and should be knighted,” Q decided, then sagged down against Bond’s chest with a sigh.  Water made ripples against his chin, and he was otherwise nearly submerged.  “As much as I dislike saying this, I might be too exhausted…  That is…” Q found himself starting and stopping awkwardly, glad that he was looking at the side of the tub and Bond’s left shoulder instead of the agent’s face, “Please don’t misconstrue this as an excuse to not…er, well… But since I just did more running than I have possibly ever done in my life-”

“Take a nap, Q.  I don’t believe that I’ll have changed my mind,” Bond said, moving a bit and adding wryly, “or moved from this position, to be honest, before you wake up.”

“Are you going to rest, too?” Q had to ask. He rolled his head enough so that he could tilt one eye Bond’s way.  Without his glasses, he just got a vague outline of Bond’s strong jaw.

One hand petting heavily down Q’s back from neck to tailbone, coaxing Q to relax into him while he himself got comfortable against the edge of the tub, Bond murmured back with the faintest hint of humor, “Well, considering that I’m not fit to fight a fly right now, I don’t have much choice.”

“Liar,” Q snorted, then yawned hugely (nearly letting water into his mouth in the process), “You’re still disgustingly alert.  If a gunman came in that door right now, can you honestly say you wouldn’t be able to put up a fight?”

“Now that’s a stupid question, Q,” the agent admonished playfully, then teased the Quartermaster mercilessly by letting his hand wander lower for the first time.  Q wriggled and quivered as blunt fingernails scratched over the curve of his arse.  It was tempting to flick water at 007 in retaliation, but the sensation honestly felt too good, and Q went limp again after his initial surprise.  Bond continued, still light and falsely innocent like the cheeky bastard he was, “You know that I don’t _honestly_ answer anything.  And to be fair, I’d have to dislodge you before taking on your imaginary gunman. I’d hate to do that.”

“I’d hate that, too,” Q murmured sleepily against Bond’s chest.  His arms and hands sank languidly lower in the water, coming to rest against 007’s sleek, muscular sides.  He ignored that they were probably sore and bruised, seeking oblivion just for now. Burying his face against Bond’s skin further accomplished that, and he allowed a hand to reach up, cup the side of his face, and maneuver Q’s head until it was tucked under Bond’s chin.

“I’d also hate the embarrassment of facing off against a villain whilst wearing only my skin and some stitches.”

“But you’re not denying that you could do it.”

“Well, Q, I did promise that no one would touch you – no one but me,” Bond reminded, voice edging into the realm of seriousness again, if only just.  He interlaced his callused fingers and settled them over the small of Q’s back, letting his body cradle his Quartermaster’s.  The feeling of Bond relaxing was less a physical motion and more an indescribable sense of pressure easing.  Unbidden, Q thought of flowers unfolding as they left the tight fist of their buds – cormorant wings stretching outwards to dry in the sun – the ozone smell left behind after a lightning bolt had sent its strength into the earth for safekeeping. Q folded his arms around with his last bit of waking energy, embracing 007 back as 007 was holding Q.

007 made a brief, surprised noise, muscles clenching, and then he eased a second time.  This time, he also sighed out a breath against the top of Q’s head, slow and tired but at ease.  A thumb stroked a soft line next to Q’s spine. 

“I’ll always keep my promises to you,” was the last gruff murmur Q heard before he drifted off to sleep in the warm bath.

~^~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fear not, sex shall come (Suddenly, I want this on a T-shirt to describe _all_ of my fics...)


	22. Promise to Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I promised the boys - and the readers - an end to the slow-burn ;3 Bond and Q finally get some time to test out the sparks between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look who's back from the UK and already typing like a fiend!! \\(^u^)/ I hope you enjoy! My editor has once again prover herself to be a miriacle-worker - I planned to post this around Friday, but she had it edited and back to me in faaaaar less time than that!

Q drifted back to wakefulness with the knowledge that the water had grown perceptibly cooler, but that 007 was more than making up for that, making things physically somewhat hotter.  Despite the fact that the agent should have been more worn out than his Quartermaster, 007 was awake and quite active again, mouth hot and tongue almost delicate against the shell of Q’s ear, body powerful as it rolled just enough for Q to hiss at the friction as 007’s hard cock rubbed against his in the water.  “All right, all right, I’m awake,” Q said, hoping that his voice passed for groggy instead of instantly breathy.  The chuckle above his head indicated that Bond knew better. “Unless I’m misreading you, I’ve only got a short window if I actually want to wash my hair. Correct?” Q went on, pushing himself up carefully with his hands trying to avoid the bruises on Bond’s chest. The agent didn’t appear to mind.

Hands that had been wandering along Q’s body with increasingly intimate touches retreated to drape, along with the muscled length of 007’s arms, along the edges of the tub. He regarded Q with the kind of intense interest that started fires.  “I wouldn’t put it in such professional words, but yes,” the man replied, incorrigibly and with some of that sultry charm.  “I don’t suppose it would make any difference if I told you that I’d want you even if you smelled like pond-water?”

The sentence, while flippant sounding, had something warm curling in Q’s chest, because there had been a flicker of… something… in 007’s blue-frost eyes, as he tilted his head.  That ‘something’ had been wandering in and out of Bond’s gaze like an itinerant cat ever since the shoot-out had ended, and maybe even before then.  It was Bond’s version of an affectionate look, Q thought, without the masks and shields.  It was hard to recognize, but Q had finally come to understand 007 enough to parse out his subtle moods.  It was like translating an opal’s fire, a message written in shifting colors that the eye was often unable to understand before they were changing again – beautiful but largely unreadable.

Smirking back, shuffling those thoughts aside, Q replied as he turned around to seek out the shampoo, “I’m flattered, but I’m afraid that my own tolerance is much lower – I need to feel clean.  Also, if…” Although he had his back to Bond, and therefore should have felt far braver without eye-contact, Q found his words stuttering off.  He bit his lip. Damn.  Words should have been easier by this point: he’d seen the man kill, he’d seen the man fuck, and he’d seen what Bond would do to keep Q safe and by his side.  But Q still found that some questions didn’t want to leave his mouth to brave the open air, where MI6’s deadliest and most callous agent could inspect them.

A rough hand touched Q’s back, idly making a pattern between the edges of Q’s shoulder-blades – dangerous tools at play, and anything but callous. “If what?” Bond coaxed with a surprisingly soft, gentle tone. 

Sitting with the shampoo bottle in his hands now, Q looked down at it, wondering how he could be so shy and embarrassed when he was naked in a tub with someone – someone who had seen him naked _before_. Still, for 007, nudity was as common as sunshine, and sexuality had apparently ceased to be novel to him, too, if his constant use of it was any indication.  Q was seeing all the signs around him that _this_ was different, though.

But seeing the signs and trying to transform them into words were two entirely different things. Q’s mouth moved again, but the words continued to dance out of his reach, the fickle little fiends.

Sometimes, 007 could be unexpectedly intuitive.  It was already a given that he was scarily intelligent when he felt the need, and Q in fact quite liked 007’s quick mind, but sometimes Bond did things that were beyond clever – and even Q didn’t know how the man did them. Thankfully, neither did any MI6’s enemies, making Bond the only cat with more than nine lives in the business. Now, in one of his perceptive moments, 007 suddenly sat up.  Q stayed still as he heard the water moving, and continued to look at his own slim fingers when 007’s chin hooked over his shoulder.  Out of the water, Q’s back and shoulders had started to prickle with chill, but now he was wrapped in 007’s summer-day heat again. 

“If I have sex with you?” Bond hazarded the end of the sentence, and when Q twitched – giving himself away – the blond-haired man didn’t seem surprised. “If I prove to you my promise that no one is going to touch you but me?  That I’ll touch you until my hands are the only thing you’ll know?” 007’s head tilted down as Q shivered, brushing his lips against the slope of skin between Q’s neck and shoulder without kissing.  “Is that what you were going to say?”

Since Bond actually sounded level and serious, and not teasing in the slightest, Q leaned back into him, tilting his head in a hesitant invitation.  007 twitched in actual surprise, but soon was making a ladder of soft kisses up to the sensitive hollow behind Q’s ear. One hand cradling the side of Q’s ribs absently, Bond reached around to take the shampoo into his own grip. With an attentive patience that Q would never had guessed Bond possessed when they first met, 007 proceeded to soap up Q’s wet hair. 

“I was going to say something like that,” Q finally admitted, cheeks coloring a little even as he got increasingly distracted by the feeling of strong fingers massaging his scalp.  It was unbecoming of Quartermasters to purr, he figured, but it was a tempting thought. “Only with the addition that… if you wished to have sex with me… it would have to be somewhere other than this tub, because the water is getting cold, and _that_ is a kink that I most decidedly do not have.”

“And what kinks _do_ you have?”

Q sucked in a breath, because now Bond was the one purring, only in his low octave it sounded far more seductive than merely pleased.  Although it also sounded pleased.  And smug. And dangerous. And everything that was James Bond.

“I have a kink,” Q said, testing the waters instead of playing along.  007 continued to wash Q’s hair, but went silent, sensing the change in tone. “For people who stay by me, and who want me for more than one night.”

The words came out sounding far more vulnerable than Q had intended, and he mentally cursed himself, feeling his flush creep down his neck and chest in an incriminating wave of heat. Sometimes he wondered if he was a sadist or a masochist: constantly putting off saying ‘Yes’ to Bond while simultaneously pushing the man away from him again and again and again. Did he just want to see if the agent would come _back_? Q groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. 

“That’s what you’ve got, Q,” Bond surprised him by saying, low and fervent in a voice he rarely used. “That’s what I’m going to be.” The hands in Q’s hair sleeked his soapy hair back, also tilting Q’s head, allowing 007 to press a feather-light but burning, close-mouthed kiss to the back of Q’s jaw. 

~^~

Q was tentatively willing to say that he had a superpower, and that superpower was the ability to calm down 007. His earlier sexual advances seemingly forgotten, Bond quite sedately finished washing Q’s hair, and then let his Quartermaster return the favor.  With Q turning around so the two of them were facing each other, Bond obliged to lower his head for Q’s nimble fingers – it was a rare show of tolerant, patient obedience that made Q’s heart skip unexpectedly. Q spent the next few minutes working suds into the short, golden strands, less bothered by the blood he was working free than expected.  Some part of him must have finally given up and accepted that he was doomed to see blood on the wrong side of 007’s skin regularly, especially since…

Especially since, by some odd slip of luck or design, Q had wriggled in past Bond’s cold, dangerous demeanor and had found a place for himself in the vault of Bond’s heart.  And James was going to let him stay there.

Just thinking it made a thrill of heat surge from Q’s heels to the very tips of his ears, causing his breath to catch. His ribs felt too tight to contain the emotion swelling against them, as Q thought about how he had the trust of one of the most dangerous – and pathologically untrusting – men alive. Bond must have noticed the way Q suddenly stilled, because a blue eye slanted up past Q’s hands in his hair, an unreadable but canny glance.  All the agent did, however, was move a hand through the water to brush the backs of his first two fingers against the inside of Q’s knee where he knelt.  The slow stroking there brought Q back to the present, and grounded him as he finished up. 

For all that Q had lulled 007 into a rare state of calmness, things heated up very quickly not long after both men were washed and dried. 

Q had refused to leave the steamy interior of the bathroom until he was entirely huddled in a towel, and his libido gave way to pure (and admittedly childish) annoyance as he was forced to step out into the hallway onto the cold floor.  He swore and complained bitterly, only to have 007’s chuckle roll over his growled invectives, and then the agent was steering him towards Bond’s bedroom.

Apparently, the relative chill of the rest of the house meant nothing to Bond, because he’d barely bothered to wrap a towel around himself; it hung obscenely low around his hips in a way Q couldn’t help but notice.  Despite the nipping coldness, his cock was also still quite interested, as Q could feel when he was pushed up against the inside of 007’s bedroom door and caught in a searing, hungry kiss.  007’s hands caught and guided Q’s jaw, effortlessly finding the best angle as folds of damp towel slipped off Q’s head.  Moaning into Bond’s mouth, Q’s hands found it increasingly hard to remember why he was clutching the fabric about his shoulders.  Instinct told him to reach and touch back as he was being touched, but instead he was stymied, not wanting to discard the warmth of his towel. 

That didn’t seem to bother 007 in the slightest.  In fact, he seemed to revel in the control.  A chuckling growl rolled up from his chest. 

Nipping at Q’s lower lip and then sucking at Q’s tongue when he was allowed entrance, Bond pushed forward, giving Q more contact without the need to drop the material keeping him warm. Chest still damp and smelling of soap, Bond let one hand rest on the door next to Q’s head while the other slid back until his fingers sank into Q’s freshly-washed hair.  His thumb stroked where it was snug behind Q’s ear, a touch that was gentle where his mouth was demanding.  Q’s eyes had long-since fallen shut, his thoughts shutting down except for those dedicated to processing the waves of sensation, so he was almost startled when Bond finally drew close enough so that they were touching from nearly thighs to chest.  When Q broke for breath – tipping his head back, eyes still closed – and shifted his weight, he even ended up with one foot over Bond’s, and left it there with the muzzy hope of keeping the other man exactly where he was.

When Bond rolled his hips, the towel was an insufficient barrier to keep them both from groaning with frustration and appreciation – it was both too much and not enough. Despite the cold air, Q felt like he was starting to burn up inside. 

“Bed, Q,” Bond still had the skill for words, because he always did.  Only when Q was doing brash heroic things, or in danger, did 007 loose his verbal charm. Nuzzling up under Q’s jaw and sucking lightly at the skin for a moment, he added velvetly, “Will you lose the towel if I promise to keep you warm?”

Q’s knuckles were pressed against 007’s pectorals and collarbones, where Q was still clutching his towel closed like a cloak.  He imagined that he could feel 007’s indomitable vitality leaching right into him through the contact, and he was struck anew by the urge to touch – to touch _everywhere_.  “Y-Yes,” he shoved out the answer, only after a long moment of _thinking_ the answer but forgetting how his vocal cords worked, because 007’s left hand had slipped past the towel and was scratching lazy patterns lower and lower down his Quartermaster’s stomach. This was what Q had been denying practically since the start of 007’s flirting, and already he wondered _how_ he’d managed that, because Bond was like a drug – like a high – like a symphony.  It was an orchestrated sensation that not only clung to Q’s skin but sank into his bones and made him want more after just this brief taste. 

“You’ll forget the cold,” Bond promised in a low whisper, and Q believed him. 

Mouths crashing together again, the two made the brief journey from the door to the bed, Bond manhandling Q, but the smaller man hardly cared.  Bond kept his vow by being a grand distraction, too.  Q didn’t even know when the towel slipped from his shoulders, even when he just about tripped over it, because by then Bond’s hands were curling around him possessively, pulling Q impossibly closer, and the agent kissed like an art form. Even while Q found himself overwhelmed by so much contact, he was coherent enough to note that 007 was coming a bit unstrung, too, kissing harder and grabbing tighter. That made Q’s toes curl and a proud shiver travel up his spine, even as 007 pushed him back onto the bed and covered him almost immediately with his body.  By now, all Q could do was gasp, as his nerve-endings picked up all the skin-on-skin contact and sent it in waves up to his brain.

Q had seen Bond be fifty kinds of lovers, but somehow this was different.  This was the hunger of a man who had wanted something he couldn’t have for what felt like ages, the physical desperation of someone who needed a reminder that they were both safe and living.  The way he formed his body around Q instantly spoke of a possessiveness that went beyond shallow ownership, and even when Q had to just pause and catch his breath, 007 continued to worship the slimmer body beneath him insatiably with his mouth and hands. Callused fingertips danced along each of Q’s ribs, strong hands seemed to test the long bones of Q’s arms before folding hotly over his shoulders, and all the while 007 sucked and lathed at his skin, nipping whenever Q grew complacent.

On another occasion, Q might have said it was too much – certainly, with another lover, he would have. But this was 007, and if he’d been anything but overwhelming, Q would haven’t have recognized him. So with Bond pressing down on him and mouthing at his throat, Q relaxed for what felt the first time in a millennia, and let his mind sink into the fact that this was the safest place he could be right now.  Delight buzzed in his brain, sparking and spreading with every unexpected scrape of 007’s teeth or the stubble of his jaw.  Q’s fingers skimmed over flexing, coiled muscles in return, feeling the iron strength in 007’s biceps and shoulders, the broad curvature of his chest. In some part of his mind, Q had always imagined that this would be a rather frightening experience, what with all of 007’s less reputable skills, and the fact that Q was only trained in self-defense in the mildest sense. 

But it was hard to be afraid of the man looming over him when that same man spoke like he’d take down entire _worlds_ for his Quartermaster.

Suddenly Bond rumbled out between kisses, his practiced sultry voice a lot rougher than Q remembered it ever being over the comms, “ _God_ , how long I’ve wanted you like this, Q.  All of you. _Everything_.” The words went straight to Q’s cock, and he arched reflexively and curled his body upwards – seeking the contact that those heated words promised.  As his leg folded up quite of its own accord, the inside of Q’s thigh felt the corded muscles of Bond’s thigh, trying to hug the agent’s hips close.

Because being a teasing minx was clearly in the larger man’s nature, he continued to keep just enough distance so that Q wasn’t getting the friction he wanted, and when a [totally involuntary] needy noise twisted up Q’s throat, Bond leaned his head up to nip at the underside of Q’s jaw.  The chuckle felt like it throbbed right through Q’s sternum.  “I’ve had your damnably professional voice in my ear on missions, your stroppy looks when I bring things back broken – I’ve even had your unimpressed looks when I’ve done something that I _know_ drives you insane,” 007 continued unstoppably, leaning up to once again press their mouths together, swallowing the next needy noise that Q made. “But then I suddenly wanted _all_ of you-!” Bond’s growl broke out between kisses, and it was so incredibly frustrated sounding that Q just started laughing. He was still unbelievably turned-on, but the helplessly amused sounds just escaped out of his lungs as if they couldn’t help themselves – because usually everyone _else_ was getting irked with _Bond_. The symmetry was deeply gratifying.

Bond, of course, shut him up by kissing him again, rough and long and deep like he wanted to devour Q, and Q’s mind once again became occupied with the utter onslaught of sensation. A moment ago, 007 had had the wherewithal to taunt his Quartermaster, but now the agent seemed just as far gone as Q was, barely keeping enough of his weight lifted on his arms so that he didn’t crush the breath out of his smaller partner.  Q doubted he would have minded if he did – head spinning from kissing and not breathing, all Q wanted right now was more of 007 pressed against him. The weight of Bond was so solid, so unshakable, that it felt like Q had been floating adrift all his life, and someone had finally managed to peg him to the earth. Obviously, Q had known that Bond was good at physical things like this, but watching it on commandeered surveillance cameras (while also trying to make sure that no one came in and _shot_ 007) was different than having the entire brunt of that skill turned to Q and only Q. 

“Yes… _yes_ , please” Q gasped out, unaware that he was even speaking, his eyes fluttering closed as one of 007’s callused hands finally slid between them. He didn’t touch Q’s cock, merely skimmed over his flat belly as if to feel it pant and heave, but the light touch was like Bond’s voice: rife with an undercurrent of promises.

007 pressed softer kisses to Q’s jawline and cheekbone, finally kissing right up against his temple, pushing Q’s head to one side with the steady force of it.  Q paid him back by lifting his hands and tangling them in the short hair at the back of Bond’s skull, the strands almost soft now that the sweat and grime and blood had been washed out of it.  For a brief second, Q’s brain stuttered back on again, recalling grimmer things, but 007’s kisses became possessive bites again, sucking at Q’s skin until the thought was pulled away.  “Lube,” Q got his vocabulary together again to find the word, alert enough to recall a few useful things.  More words were harder, but he had the feeling he needed them, especially because 007 was like a game of chance: would he be rough, or would he be gentle? He had capabilities that spanned the entire spectrum, and Q got dizzy just trying to think about what he would prefer, but he bit out anyway, “If this… If this is going where I…” Bond’s hand slid lower down his stomach, one finger purposefully catching in Q’s navel, while his other fingers splayed out and pressed down, so close to Q’s groin that he succumbed to a full-body shiver.  Doggedly, he finished, “…Where I _dearly_ hope it’s going, we need lube.” 

The first response was a growl as if someone had just yanked on 007’s metaphorical choke-chain, and 007 dropped his head forward so that Q could both hear and feel the warm huff of complaint. The rest of him stopped moving immediately, however, so Q merely exhaled a little breathy chuckle himself, resisting the urge to call 007 ‘petulant.’  Before Q could really wrap his head around the whole idea (that Bond, who’d had more sexual partners than _anyone_ at MI6 could accurately count, was so enamored with Q that he grumbled at the necessity of pausing), 007 pushed himself up and away.

And that was a sight to see.

Q hadn’t put his glasses back on after the bath.  He knew somewhere in the back of his mind that 007 had carried them while Q cocooned himself in the biggest towel available, so they’d probably ended up somewhere near the bed before 007 had pinned him to the door and snogged him halfway senseless. Now, without his glasses, the room was a foggy mixture of shadowy impressions, outlined by what weak light made it through the closed curtains – and that was more than enough for even Q’s weak eyes to take in the impressive sight of the 00-agent looming over him.

Kneeling up with his weight on his knees and feet, Q’s legs still hooked over his tensed thighs, 007 looked like some sort of back-alley war-god. The light from outside was cold and watery, but against 007’s golden tones, it seemed to find warmth, gilding the perfect edges of him.  The light curled around abdominal muscles, strayed across the broad planes of shoulders and the sharper line of a strong collarbone. There was enough light to see the injuries, too: the bruises already blooming into different and more vibrant colors, the scrapes and minor cuts that looked red but were already scabbed over and cleaned.  Above all, however, there was the stark _vitality_ of him.  007 was a livewire, a storm in a bottle, and it was as if the injuries were merely scuffs on his shell – minor things that didn’t have a hope of really stopping him. Lying back, still panting, Q just continued to stare even as 007 leaned back just enough to twist, stretch, and yank open the bedside drawer. 

Either 007 was always prepared, or he’d planned this; Q didn’t care which.  He came back with the desired item in hand.  “Let’s see if I can’t make you sound a little bit less posh,” he proposed with a crooked, roguish grin and a huskily low voice.  Q remained fixated on the flex and clench of 007’s entire abdomen as he turned back from reaching, depositing some of the lube onto his hands to warm it up.  Even without his glasses on, Q knew that he was being watched by eyes as intensely blue and sharply burning as frostbite – 007 was made of contradictions that way. Eyes like ice but body-heat like a kiln; a persona so detached that he barely seemed to feel anything, until someone threatened Q and suddenly 007 felt the need to put three bullets in them. It was terrifying and it was comforting, and Q stopped thinking about it when an oiled hand slid languidly along his thigh before taking his cock in hand. 

It had been awhile since Q had been with someone – and with 007, it was hard to _remember_ anyone else.  Bond burned out the memory.  Like a flame licking along a branch, 007 curled forward, starting by pressing kisses to Q’s stomach, no doubt feeling the fluttering muscles even as he leisurely moved his way upwards.  It was an almost teasing counter to the storm of pleasure 007 was creating with the slow pulls of his hand, snug around Q’s cock and learning what he liked with obscene quickness.  Q found himself squirming against the dual sensations, not sure which to press into but wanting all of them, pressing his knees to 007’s sides and locking his feet behind his back.

“You’re always such a puzzle, Quartermaster,” 007 growled in his ear when his kisses brought him there. The professional term combined with the carnal tone had Q shivering and his eyes fluttering open to meet 007’s. The sliver of blue around 007’s blown pupils was a wicked ring of sapphire color, and Bond’s quick flash of a smile was equally full of mischief.  Bond nuzzled at Q’s cheek before just moving his mouth to hover above Q’s – the better to catch his gasp upon his lips when Q pulled in a shocked breath suddenly, feeling 007’s unoccupied hand slide unexpectedly down between his legs to press against his entrance.  007, playing the unconcerned bystander (as if he had nothing to do with this, and was entirely, totally innocent), murmured even as Q’s startled, exhilarated breath played across his face, “You’re a puzzle, and I’m going to take you apart. I’m going to figure you out…” A deft finger slid tantalizingly around the tight ring of muscles, oil smoothing the way even as calluses added a delicious friction that had Q shuddering and panting.  The panting became a soft moan as Bond started pressing that finger in, matching the maddening slowness with his other hand: he was still jacking Q slowly, but it was now just enough to keep the pleasure alive, holding Q where he was.  At the burningly slow intrusion, 007 continued to promise, “…Inch, by inch.” 

One finger was fully inside of Q by the time the sentence was finished, and Q breathed out a soft, reverent-sounding curse as his body twitched and shuddered around the intrusion. His eyes had closed again, and Bond kissed one lid as if in praise.  He lifted his hand from Q’s cock to briefly cradle the side of Q’s jaw, angling him for a fierce kiss that melted like heated gold between them, and Q was dizzyingly aware that Bond was undoubtedly spreading lube and precum on Q’s cheek. Then Q gasped and swore as 007 lowered his hand and lapped at the side of Q’s face as if hungry to clean it all away. The inhale and the swearing swiftly turned to far louder invocations as the free hand once again found its way to Q’s cock and began stroking it expertly again, flushing Q with hot waves of pleasure as the one finger in his arse was joined by another, the foreign stretching blotted out by everything else.  “God, _James_!” Q choked out as 007 suddenly brushed a spot inside of him that had everything tripling in intensity, sparks flying up his spine and making his body all but curl in on itself.

Leaving off stroking Q’s cock, 007 made a low, appreciative sound and stretched forward again to kiss Q like he couldn’t get enough of his mouth.  With two – no, three – fingers now pumping in and out of his arse, Q barely had the focus and breath to spare, but he nipped back once or twice at 007’s lips. He definitely chased them as they pulled away.  “Don’t worry, Q, I’m not going anywhere,” Bond soothed, proving it by sliding the fingers of his free hand into Q’s hair, holding his head still even as he bent his own head to the smaller man’s chest.  Q realized what he was going to do a second before he did it, and reached up spasmodically to grip Bond’s broad shoulders.  Then, held in place by the strong hand in his hair and the fingers working inside of him, Q let out a pleasured cry as 007’s tongue just teased at one nipple. A glance down showed 007 grinning up at him wolfishly, but before Q could demand that he stop teasing, Bond lapped the little nub up into his mouth and worried it with his teeth, and at exactly the same time that he struck Q’s prostate again. 

The combined sensations ratcheted up Q’s pleasure like plugging his nerve-endings into a light-socket, and he arched as much as he could.  007’s pure bulk seemed to wrap around him, controlling and enclosing everything, and the pure safety of that feeling left Q shuddering and gasping as he temporarily came back down again.  His cock was still painfully stiff, brushing 007’s stomach and painting it in precum, but that all meant nothing as Q met Bond’s eyes again: that look was so intense, like Q had hung the sun and moon, and all Bond wanted to be was the sky that wrapped around them both. 

“James…” Q whispered, sliding his hands from the other man’s shoulders up around his throat to his head. Bond allowed the gesture, despite how most agents would see it as a vulnerability to have foreign hands on their necks, and turned his head to bite playfully at the inside of Q’s wrist. When Q’s fingers pulled at his hair, however, he let himself be tugged down into a kiss, his tongue exploring Q’s mouth as soon as the Quartermaster let him in. 

007’s fingers withdrew from Q’s body slowly, making Q mewl and frown against the truly wonderful kiss he was sharing, but then he felt the blunt head of 007’s cock nudging against his entrance. Q twitched, excited, surprised, and suddenly nervous all over again, but when he started fidgeting around uneasily, Bond stroked a hand along his thigh soothingly.  His other arm came up to brace against the bed alongside Q’s shoulder, close and snug, skin-to-skin, and somehow even the blond-haired man’s kiss took on a gentling feel.  Instead of being ravenous and demanding as Q had often seen 007 be in sex, Bond took his time now, hips pushing forward only slowly.  Q broke the kiss to gasp as just the head of 007’s cock breached him, pulling back out and pushing back in with patient force. 

“All right, Q?”  007’s voice was slightly strained, head hanging so close to Q’s that their lips still brushed as he spoke.  The hand near Q’s shoulder took to absently rubbing at the curve of lean muscle and bone – reminding Q of 007’s idle habits of touching him.

After making a rather incoherent noise, Q tried to gather his thoughts enough to answer.  His own hands took to stroking along the still-damp (sweat-damp now, perhaps, as much as bath-water-damp) skin above and around him while he focused. “Fine, fine,” he finally stuttered out on an exhale, then released a moan as 007 pushed in another inch, “More than fine.”  That was closer to the truth. Q curled his arms around 007’s back, sliding lower down the man’s spine just to feel the muscles working with every thrust of 007’s hips.  It might have been his imagination, but he thought that 007 arched into his hands like a cat as the Quartermaster stroked back upwards until he could dig his fingers into the arch of Bond’s shoulder-blades.  “F-Faster. You can…”  A breath fell from Q’s lips, a sigh of pure pleasure, as 007 truly began to fill him.  “You can go faster.”

That was all the encouragement it took.

A few more rolls of Bond’s hips were all that it took to bury him to the hilt, and – assured that Q could take him in, and feeling Q’s urgings both in his words and in the grip of his hands and legs – 007 drew nearly all the way back out only to snap back in again. The sudden force had Q’s breath leaving him in a rush, and he clung to Bond as he began to get a taste of the agent’s strength.  It was nearly as breathtaking as the feeling of being so stretched and full inside.

All 00-agents were athletic, their bodies finely honed like weapons – like machines.  007 was the best of them, though, a powerhouse.  He began to focus that strength on Q, actually pushing him up the bed, until Q locked his ankles a bit tighter around the small of 007’s back. In turn, Bond curled an arm around beneath Q, which had the unexpected benefit of changing the angle of their coupling, slightly.  Suddenly every thrust had Q seeing stars, and he cried out at the raw, pleasurable sensation. 007 took great care to find the spot every time, murmuring, “Q, Q, Q…” over and over again next to Q’s ear as he planted kisses in his hair. 

When Q came, he could feel every muscle in his body locking and spasming, and that must have dragged Bond’s orgasm out of him, too, because the larger man over him groaned loudly and his rhythm suddenly stuttered.  Dropping his head and sinking his teeth into the slope of muscles between Q’s neck and shoulder – Q barely even feeling the bite, too high in his head to care – Bond came deep inside Q, muscles shuddering. 

Although Bond was still buried in him, and beginning to also lean on him more heavily, Q felt content. His pulse was still rushing in his ears like the sound of the ocean, matching the overall haze of pleasure he was floating in, and the only thing that made it better was the nearness of the other man with him.  “Thank you,” he found himself murmuring senselessly, smiling and feeling his eyes dip groggily closed. A slight shift had Bond’s softened cock slipping out of him, but also saw 007 sinking down over Q with both forearms braced alongside him – providing just enough support so that Q wasn’t crushed, but 007 was still close enough to touch.  Indulging in just that, Q began stroking anything within reach with lazy motions of tired arms: sides, back, panting ribs, broad shoulders. “Thank you, James.”

Head still bent – pleasantly exhausted himself – the larger man soothingly pressed his lips to the bite mark he’d made, then brushed his nose against the hollow of Q’s throat. When he hummed, the sound of pleasure trembled right up the column of Q’s throat, a rare and precious sound. “The feeling’s mutual, Q,” he said gruffly, which made Q smile and chuckle, before he found himself sinking from the dizzy pleasure of his climax into the velvet embrace of a tired sleep.

~^~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there is one chapter left: the epilogue. To be frank, I despise epilogues, but I know that there are some strings to be tied off. So if anyone has anything they'd like to see or that I've forgotten to finish up in this story, please tell me in the comments! I'm ready to tie this fic up in a nice big ribbon <3


	23. We End Where We Began

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fight is over. It's time to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, wow, would you look at that... I managed to put two whole smut scenes in one fic...

 

Q dreamt of cold, dark water enshrouded around him, pushing against his mouth and ears and eyes and denying him breath.  And then suddenly the sun began to pierce the murky waters.  It crashed in with a molten violence, spears from a heavenly vault let loose.  The frigid water seemed to jerk and crack, as Q’s world went from stifling dead greys and matte-blacks to a world split by metallic yellows the color of ripe wheat and kings’ crowns.  When one of those gold-shafted lances struck Q in all of its brilliant, shimmering violence, he suddenly found that he could _breathe_.

Q awoke wrapped in warmth, feeling some of the honey-gold heat in the form of 007 – already awake – curled over him.  At some point, they must have both gotten under the blankets, but with his own personal, living space-heater, Q probably would have been just fine without.  On his stomach, Q felt like his back was bathed in heat, and he couldn’t even bring himself to be annoyed at the added weight.  007 was being considerate at the moment, by not crushing his smaller bedmate.

As the Quartermaster came more and more awake, he realized that Bond was being _more_ than considerate.

A harsh love-bite immediately transcended the barrier between discomfort and rousing pleasure, and Q’s pillow did a poor job of smothering his sudden groan.  With no question now as to the wakefulness of his dark-haired partner, 007 shifted, his torso flexing all along Q’s back, and worried the skin at the side of Q’s neck between his teeth.  Q tried to curl both into it and away from it, his skin feeling hypersensitive in the wake of his dream, and he barely noticed one of James’s hands curling around his wrist.  To be frank, it seemed to have been an unconscious move on Bond’s part, too, pinning the both of them to the bed with weight and possessive, downward force.  Q’s fingers, tucked up near his shoulder as thirteen stone of trained spy bore down on him, flexed and curled before fisting in the bed-sheets.

“A man’s got to get up early if he wants to catch the Quartermaster of MI6 without his impressive onslaught of words,” 007 practically purred in Q’s ear, when it seemed he’d finally had his fill of littering Q’s pale skin with gentle bruises.  Quite a few would no doubt leave a mark, which sort of made Q want to explode another pen on the 00-agent.  The hot series of kisses Bond laid in a trail from Q’s ear to the corner of Q’s mouth made him forget the threat, though.  Instead, he closed his eyes and turned his head further, tucking it against his left shoulder as he whined for a proper kiss, morning breath be damned.  

007 acquiesced, although not before a flirtatious smile that said he could do whatever he bloody well pleased – but fortunately, it pleased him to lean down and kiss Q silly.

All of his soul cracked apart, peeled open, and pinned down: that’s what it felt like with 007 braced over him, rippling with power and potential energy.  It was terrifying like a raw nerve was terrifying, as it crackled with something that could become pain so easily.  The hand around his right wrist was unbreakably tight, the unshiftable mass of Bond all trained muscle – and despite the awkward angle, the kiss stole Q’s breath away.

Bond pulled back to smile at him again, face close enough that Q could see the hungry, mischievous light in his blue, blue eyes despite not having his glasses.  “I’m going to fuck you now, Q,” he stated, punctuating that with another press of his lips to Q’s – firm and swift, “Unless you have other plans this morning.”

007 making ‘plans’ like this meant that they were not in imminent danger of being injured, kidnapped, or killed, so Q was more than willing to melt with relief and celebrate in any way Bond saw fit.  He lifted his free hand up to catch against Bond’s cheek the next time the agent’s head dipped down again for a teasing kiss; a grunt of surprise caressed Q’s cheek with warm breath from a millimeter’s distance.  “Your plans have kept me healthy and hale so far,” Q got his voice working for the first time that morning.  He was proud that he managed to sound almost posh as he added glibly, “Except the one that got me shot.”

Now a growl buffeted his cheekbone.  “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Nope.”

The growl transformed into something more visceral – more carnal – and suddenly it was as if the desires housed in Bond’s eyes couldn’t stay there any longer, and escaped through his voice and hands.  “Well, I’ll just have to make it up to you then, won’t I?” he rumbled, as he ran his fingertips like blunted claws down Q’s sides before moving his body swiftly astride the smaller man’s hips.  Never letting up his weight, Bond licked long stripes up Q’s spine, the cool air beyond their pocket of warmth instantly touching the damp spots and making Q shudder.  He’d noted ages ago that Bond was both a night-owl _and_ a morning-person, capable of being vivaciously awake at any time of day, and now James had quite adequately gotten the drop on Q.  This was one game that Q was fairly certain would end well, regardless of winning or losing, however.

Bond lifted up his weight enough to get a hand between their bodies, teasing at Q’s entrance.  Very vaguely, Q remembered Bond cleaning them both up last night, but he still felt loose and eager, with sleep still half wrapped around him like a second embrace.  He whined something that sounded encouraging, arching up to meet the touch of Bond’s fingers, even as the agent’s other hand let go of his wrist to brace itself next to it instead.

“I thought I’d already made this up to you,” Bond mused, his voice rough but somehow still maddeningly suave as he referred to the bullet in Q’s leg, or at least the shared shower that had followed.  He let off teasing his Quartermaster to stroke a palm, hot and heavy, down Q’s hip to the very wound he was speaking of.  It was already on its way to becoming a fading scar.  When Q’s throat began making less pleased noises in response to 007’s straying attention, however, the hand left and returned again with a bit of cold lube slicking it.  Bond pushed one oiled fingertip right into him without preamble.  “I’ll do it again, shall I?” Bond pressed close to brush the words like crushed velvet against Q’s ear.

The taunting play stopped at that point.  Bond added a second finger, a swift plunge that had Q’s body remembering the night before with toe-curling vividness, and it took devastatingly little time for the agent to find the spot he wanted inside of Q, brushing it and making Q swear just before pulling his fingers back out again.  By now, Q had lifted himself up from the bed just enough so that he could reach down and touch himself, but the startling surge of James’s thick cock pressing into him blotted out all other thought for a second.  Lubed up just enough to smooth the way, the 00-agent slid into his partner in one steady, smooth stroke.

They hovered there a moment, feeling each other exquisitely and everywhere, panting in tandem.  Then Bond growled possessively and caught both of Q’s hands, pinning them down to the bed even as he started thrusting.  He didn’t start slow like the night before, but by this point, that was fine by Q; tangling his fingers together with those of the man above him, Q gasped and moaned out nonsense words as he was efficiently and perfectly fucked into the bed.  The friction of his cock trapped between his own body and the bed was almost too much, and soon he was calling out James’s name, not able to put what he wanted into words, but knowing that he wanted something that he could only find with Bond’s help.

A bit beyond words himself, Bond merely answered by increasing his pace, each snap of his hips pushing him deep into Q but also finding that angle that made the world go a bit white.  Almost before he knew it, Q was tumbling into his climax, everything in his body tightening as if intent on snapping itself in half – only Bond with his steady presence and weight kept him together.

Q’s drifting senses came back to him with the sense of weight still on him – Bond, breathing fast but deep, a contented moan slipping out against the back of Q’s neck.  He was spent, too, although Q could still feel the girth of him buried inside.  At the moment, neither that nor the weight was bothersome, so the Quartermaster merely sighed happily and curled his head down against the pillow.  When the post-orgasmic haze faded, he was pretty sure he’d dislike this position, but for now…

“You’re perfect,” 007 murmured, voice almost too soft to hear, too low to register.  Q thought that he wasn’t meant to hear it at all, but then the blond-haired agent disentangled one hand to reach up and stroke strands of hair back from Q’s temple, as if to see Q’s face better.  This close, even without his glasses, Q could read 007’s expression for once, too: it was so open and soft that Q’s heart broke a little, but swiftly sewed itself up again with that image tucked inside.

The rest of the morning was spent with a surprising amount of quietness, laziness, and gentleness for two men who dealt in espionage and had just survived a fight for their lives.  Bond seemed intent on memorizing Q as thoroughly and leisurely as possible, however (even as they got up and did mundane things like dressing and making a bite to eat and preparing to leave), and as Q let himself focus on each seemingly random touch, each breath against his hair or ear, he finally felt as if they were two puzzle pieces sliding into place.

As they began the drive back to civilization, leaving Skyfall empty and aloof behind them once again, Q forced himself to say the sappy words that had been hovering on his tongue all morning: “You’re perfect, too, just in case no one has said it.”

Q’s blush remained for what felt like hours afterwards, as 007 grinned like a loon and multitasked – calling M, checking in; calling Kincade, and telling him lies that would keep the man away from Skyfall for at least another week, in which time an MI6 clean-up crew would be able to remove the worst signs of death and destruction, maybe even all of it.  Honestly, the last time 007 had grinned that broadly he’d ended up starting an international debacle that had taken months to clear up, and somehow Q was sure that he’d be treated to similar chaos before long.  If 007 was a blue-eyed monster with just tiny snippets of personal information, then he was going to be insufferable now.

That turned out, unexpectedly, not to be the case.

~^~

Their return to MI6 was actually greeted with a certain amount of fanfare.  No one had known the specifics of the mission, of course, but it would have been rather impossible to hide the removal of MI6’s Quartermaster from his Branch.  007’s habit of being the shark forever in Q’s wake had not gone unnoticed either, and no one seemed particularly surprised now that they knew more about 007 and Q’s flight both away and into danger.  There _was_ evident surprise, however, when Bond continued to follow his Quartermaster right into Q-branch – and then proceeded to behave himself and not torment a single soul.  Both men had to report in to M, of course, but Q was by now nearly in a frenzy with the desire to check up on his projects and his people, so the detour came as a surprise to exactly no one.

Q spent a whole twenty minutes in Q-branch expecting to suddenly turn around and find 007 wreaking havoc in some large or small way, but somehow, by the time he was assured that Q-branch had survived his absence, nothing untoward had happened.  The minions seemed as shocked as everyone else, staring after the muscular agent, who was as sedate as they had ever seen him (save for a few small grins that Q hadn’t noticed, but had reminded everyone else of the various occasions when 007 had gambled them out of all their money while smirking contentedly).

It was all such a bloody miracle that Q made use of the first empty stretch of hallway he could find and crowded his way into 007’s personal space to catch his mouth in a grateful kiss.

Unlike the other times Q had initiated a kiss between them, Bond seemed truly thrown off balance and startled by this one, and Q would take time to revel in that later.  The agent actually jerked against him for a moment, muscles bunching even as he let his shoulders hit the wall, but then he recovered with his usual feline, dangerous grace, like a cat that had slipped but was stubbornly pretending it hadn’t.  Gun-callused hands grabbed at Q’s sides and arms needily, and the kiss was returned with interest instead of being rebuffed.  

At M’s voice, both men pulled apart with a start.  “Well, I’d like to say I’m surprised, but I’m afraid I’m not.  007, if you could find someplace to wait without causing trouble, I’ll hear Q’s report personally before yours.”

Since Q could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen 007 caught unawares, this was quite a moment, with the agent stiff and not quite glaring at M.  It took to the slow count of three before Bond had this expression under control again, and when he did, it was one of the looks that Q had seen a lot when he’d first taken over as Quartermaster: a boredly pleasant look that was only skin-deep, eyes like chips of blue glass.  It was an utterly unreadable look, and Q was startled to realize that he hadn’t seen that look in _weeks_.  “M,” Bond nodded and acquiesced at the same time, turning on his heel to nonchalantly saunter away.  

M looked after the agent and sighed, before turning back to her Quartermaster.  “I decided it would be more expedient if I found the two of you myself, but I’m sure he’ll find a way to wreak havoc anyway if we don’t make this quick.  My office.”  And with that, the older woman turned as well, a brisker, frailer, but no less intimidating mirror image to her agent striding down the hall in the opposite direction.  Still reeling a bit from Bond (from his good behavior as from the machinations of his mouth), Q looked helplessly between the agent and the head of MI6 before reluctantly following the latter, cheeks burning red.

They didn’t say anything until they were both firmly ensconced in M’s office, at which point Q blurted out painfully, “I apologize, M, about th-”

“I’m not here to lecture you about your interpersonal relationships, Quartermaster,” M cut him off, surprisingly.  Her posture and expression bespoke no anger, backing up her words, even if the silver-haired woman was as intimidating as ever.  “I’ll only remind you that the job comes first, and whatever has developed between you and 007 will be expected to have no impact whatsoever upon your job performances.”  Perhaps something glinted in her eyes as she added, “And I would hope that you keep in mind the sensibilities of your underlings.  While Bond would no doubt revel in scarring your employees for life with public displays of affections, I have a higher regard for your professional self control.”

By this point, Q was blushing even more furiously than before, resisting the urge to sink down in his chair like a child while embarrassment flooded him.  By this point, he had the sinking suspicion that M was amused, but the woman hid it well - she’d practiced her unreadable-face alongside 007, apparently.  Perhaps there was a reason that M and Bond got on well, and the latter listened to the former, when most people lasted days at most with the agent before running for the hills or the nearest available straight-jacket.  

“Understood, Ma’am,” Q managed to get out in a choked little voice, “You can be sure that… this…”  He wasn’t sure what to call it, but he was pretty sure he was now in a relationship with MI6’s best, and the head of MI6 knew about it.  “...Will not affect our work.”

Now M _did_ snort.  “Be prepared for 007 to test that at least once a week.  Now - to business.  I expect a written report by the end of the week, but if I don’t have to wait that long, then I’m not bloody going to.  Report, Quartermaster.”

~^~

Q left M’s office feeling a lot like he’d just had ‘the shovel talk’ from a mother-figure, even though the rest of their conversation had revolved largely around the events that had followed Q’s leaving of MI6 to go play bait for 007’s simple but effective trap.  M took it all stoically, only the occasional emotions given away in her eyes or the pursing of her lips.  She did not interrupt, but at the end, gave Q more details about how things had ended on her end, with the capture of the mole.  MI5 had also found significant leaks in their organization - far worse than the one turncoat that MI6 had rooted out in Q’s absence - and were presently working on them.  Still, the problem was largely solved, even if MI5 would likely never get over their humiliation.  On the up-side, however, they were now more than willing to support Q and his Vas-drive, despite their aspersions towards it previously.  Sometimes, Q thought, a few errors and some embarrassment could do a lot to teach humility and common-sense.

While Q wasn’t shown any errors in his own actions, he was given a healthy dose of embarrassment, and then sent out again with a clipped but sincere, “Welcome back, Quartermaster.”

Bond was waiting right outside M’s door, arms folded and posture deceptively relaxed, as always.  It looked as though he’d been idly chatting up the trio of secretaries that shared M’s anteroom.  “You’re looking a little flushed there, Quartermaster,” he observed with a sly ghost of a smile just touching one side of his mouth.

Looking at that handsome, roguish face, Q ended up looking skyward as if assistance would come from there, and huffing out a sigh.  “I don’t even know how to deal with you right now,” he groaned sincerely.  

“You do realize that you brought this on yourself” the agent pointed out, “It’s not as if I was the one jumping people in the hallway.”

A sideways glance told Q that the secretaries were clearing hearing this, but Bond seemed uninterested in lowering his voice, and Q was already biting back out of reflex, “It was an impulse.  I wasn’t thinking.”

“I rather like you when you’re not thinking.”

The way Bond said that and smiled around his words made it very, very clear that he was thinking of specific circumstances under which he had rendered Q incoherent, and Q could only stare at him and mantle again in the face of 007’s sheer audacity.  By now, the secretaries were tittering, and this would undoubtedly be all over this week’s gossip.  Q dropped his voice to a hiss, “You’re shameless.”

“You should know that already.”

“I should rig your car to explode.”

“You’re not that cold-hearted.”

“True,” Q admitted, “but if you’re going to make it clear that we…”

“Are together?” 007 finished surprisingly easily, shifting a bit closer, right shoulder still braced against the wall next to M’s closed door.  

Q’s heart did a little dance in his chest at hearing Bond say that out loud, where other people could hear it, no less.  Then again, it only made sense: 007 was fearless to the point of certifiable insanity in the field, and he was showing a similar predilection right now, in front of Q.  Now that the dangerous agent had accepted Q into the armored thing he called his heart, he seemed unbothered by anyone else knowing it.  Belatedly, Q got back to finishing his sentence, folding his arms as well, “If you’re going to make it clear that we are together, you should know that M has already set down a few ground rules.  Apparently we're not very subtle.”

Bond smirked, eased forward more still, and caught Q’s mouth in a slow, sweet kiss in full view of the other workers around them.  “Not trying to be subtle, Q.”

~^~

M was right, in that Bond tested the boundaries of Q’s patience on a regular basis.  For a man who had previously refused to let anyone in, and had shown neither need nor interest in personal relations, he now flaunted what he had with the Quartermaster quite openly.  Then again, who would challenge him?  The first 00-agent who thought to take advantage of Q’s supposed ‘favoritism towards handsome agents’ mysteriously wound up with a broken arm and a fractured jaw.  Somehow, despite having been clearly hit in the face from the front, he had no recollection of who had done the damage, and didn’t so much as give the Quartermaster a sideways look from that point on.  A week later, and Q - on a hunch, and perhaps because he had a habit of tracking 007 through MI6 with the security cameras - entered the break-room to find Bond lounging on the beaten couch by the fridge with four other 00-agents nearby.  To the untrained eye, it looked an awful lot like the latter four had ganged up on and cornered 007, but the tight-lipped slash of a grin on 007’s face said otherwise.  

“Are you causing trouble, Bond?” Q asked, purposefully making his tone droll even as five sets of eyes turned his way.  Q was aware that he looked ridiculously out of place, with his sparse frame and glasses, his cardigan and utter lack of anything resembling combat training.

Bond merely raised his cup of coffee like a lazy greeting, and replied in the same easy tone, “Not at all, Quartermaster.  What makes you think that?”

“Oh, I haven’t the faintest idea.”  Q began putting water on to boil for tea.  He was turning his back on some very dangerous men, but the looks on their faces said that they were the ones uneasy.  “009, don’t you have a mission briefing to be going to?”

“Yes, 009, don’t you?” Bond echoed with silky belligerence.

It said something about 007’s reputation that instead of getting hot under the collar, all of the other 00-agents shifted their weight slightly and met his eyes only for the briefest of glances.  Predators knew their own kind, and the 00-agents clearly knew that there was something different about 007 - Q sometimes wondered if it was something akin to terribly sane insanity.  Goodness knew Bond was uncannily cunning, but also had the nastiest habits of doing crazy things that no one else in their right mind dared.  

That was the last time any of the 00-agents gave either Q or Bond any trouble.  Perhaps it had something to do with Bond’s unrepentant, barracuda grin - the kind of grin that reminded them that he could be a terribly amoral sonofabitch, and connecting with a certain lanky Quartermaster hadn’t changed that in the slightest.  Things soon returned to normal, with all the 00-agents destroying tech, snapping at each other like the alpha-dogs they were, and ultimately knowing that their Quartermaster would be the one to pull their arses out of the fire when things got hot.  

Outside of MI6, things changed more drastically without really changing at all.

Q still locked his doors and set his alarms, but expected 007 to get in anyway, in the same way that someone expected shadows to stretch at sundown.  He purposefully left a spare key lying around, but even after it ‘mysteriously’ disappeared in the wake of one of Bond’s visits, Q suspected that the agent continued to break in just because he liked to.  

Sometimes Q woke up to hands on him, already stroking the sleepy, hazy lust of dreams into a burning fire upon waking.  Sometimes Q came home after a long three days of nonstop work and found the agent cooking in his kitchen, using ingredients that Q could have sworn he didn’t have anywhere in his flat.  Sometimes Q went to sleep with muscle and heat wrapped around him, and woke up with an empty bed; he’d usually get a text not long after informing him that he was needed to run a mission, and that 007 was already en-route, or perhaps even causing trouble already.  Somehow, that made waking up alone easier to handle, because Q had never had any illusions about 007 being anything other than a spy, assassin, and agent of MI6.  

Sometimes, Q woke up first, and the other half of his bed was still occupied, letting him just sit and gaze at the man he’d somehow gotten so tangled up with that he never wanted to disengage.  Bond would let the smaller man’s fingers play across his bare skin, never stirring.  Whatever subconscious senses Bond maintained even in his shallow sleep had apparently long-since coded Q in as a safe entity, and Q was humbled by the knowledge that this dangerous man would sleep with him awake and moving by his side.  If he said the agent’s name, of course, he’d come awake.  Saying “007,” would have the larger man awake with the keen alertness of an unsheathed knife; if Q was using that title, then things were serious, or M had called one of them in.  If Q said “Bond,” one pale-blue eye would slide open, immediately finding Q’s face with a silent question, but rarely would the man’s body tense; if it did, it was such a subtle thing that Q only noticed it if he was wrapped up in the agent’s arms.  

When Q murmured, “James,” this morning, however, sitting by the other man’s side and watching the morning light play across his bare back and shoulders, all the agent did was hum under his breath and snake an arm out from beneath his pillow, wrapping it around Q’s waist.  Without so much as opening his eyes, Bond tugged Q back down and under the covers, so that they were snug, side-by-side.  Q felt himself almost instantly sinking into the lull of even breaths and warm, familiar-smelling skin.  

“Go back to sleep, Q,” Bond grumbled, his other arm still coiled beneath his pillow, keeping it close for the agent to bury his tousled blond head in it.  That was all the invitation Q needed to steal the remaining space, smiling as Bond grumbled and readjusted until they both fit.  

Across the room, Q’s chess-board sat on a table, king vs. king once again arrayed across it to show how the last match had ended.  The black and white pieces faced one another as if they’d always been meant to be that way.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, this fic is complete! I tried to take into account as many comments as I could, for what people wanted to see/know for this epilogue - I know I didn't clear up everything, but hopefully this is enjoyable nonetheless :) It's been a wild ride, and I can say I enjoyed every minute of it! 
> 
> As always, a million thanks to my editor: this fic would have been quite a rough little thing if there wasn't someone there to catch my errors (and give me encouraging/funny/awesome little comments along the way).
> 
> Another round of thanks to [chibichibit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chibichibit), who made the closing piece of art which will hopefully leave you all as happy as it has left me :) I'm fortunate indeed to have people who like my words enough to drew them out - and to do it so perfectly! The original link for her photo-manip is [here](http://chibichibit.tumblr.com/post/145101544425/blue-eyed-monster-by-only1truth-yes-this)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for Blue-Eyed Monster](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6436789) by [tentitoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tentitoo/pseuds/tentitoo)




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